


Of the Fire

by gearsandgrime



Series: Of the Fire [1]
Category: Dragonborn - Fandom, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Skyrim, Tamriel - Fandom
Genre: Riften, Solitude, Thieves Guild, Whiterun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 02:47:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20922914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearsandgrime/pseuds/gearsandgrime
Summary: Pierre Of-The-Fire is a Bosmer on the run. From what exactly―there's no end in sight. Certainly something in the past, and most definitely all the people who want to see his cold, dead body. But he has his own issues to worry about, and he still needs to figure out how to solve those. Although it's his typical hand in life, Pierre is about to stumble into a journey that calls everything about who he is into question. It will be up to him to decide if he can bear trying to find an answer to any of it.





	1. Awake

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a multi-chapter series. Hope that you enjoy the first part and look forward to the upcoming ones.

The bitter cold didn’t seem to chill him in the slightest. Sweat beaded down the sides of his temples, flying off behind his ears. It was quite hot, in fact. He wasn’t sure exactly how long he had been running to feel this way, but it must have been some time, judging from the sweat and his ragged breath. Trees bushy and tall passed him in a blur. Twigs crunched and cracked beneath his wearied boots. A few times, they plunged into shallow but freezing snow, completely soaking his feet. They were the only part of him that was cold. Even so, he could hardly feel it as he tore through the forest. There were matters more pressing to focus on, such as the group of soldiers after him. 

Pierre Of-The-Fire’s life was wanted. The only issue was that he didn’t want it to end yet. So, when the small group of soldiers saw him as he waltzed into Skyrim, knapsack of gold jewelry and hands tied with exorbitant weapons made for kings, he was as good as dead. Being at the very edge of the border, it was no puzzle to put together that Pierre was illegally crossing it. One of the soldiers instantly shot up, bow and arrow cocked and ready to fire. 

Nothing but pure grace from the gods saved him, and he dodged almost perfectly, the arrow only nicking the edge of his ear. 

The weapons and bag of jewelry were terribly heavy, too heavy for him to carry and escape alive simultaneously. Before another arrow could whiz past, most likely straight into his chest, Pierre dropped the swords. They fell to the ground with the terrible noise of ricocheting metal. Then the knapsack, which crumpled with the weight of the jewelry inside. Not wasting another moment to think, his legs acted first, flinging him into the forest that lived to his right. 

He could hear the arrows in their terrifying closeness. They whistled as they caught tree trunks instead of flesh. Some were behind him, others ahead. As he sprinted further into the brush, the arrows lessened. It did not ease his soul. Just as loud as his own feet, he could hear the angry tracks of the soldiers with their bulky armor behind him. Their shouts were audible as well, demanding he stopped, as well as calling to each other to make sure he couldn’t move when he was caught. 

Since the arrows had stopped, Pierre took a sudden turn to the left. After a few yards, he went to the right. It was a lousy attempt to exhaust the soldiers, but being weaponless and armorless, it was all he had to defend himself. Stamina would help too. He had stamina.

And there he was, making haste through the unknown trees, soldiers still hot on his trail. Another pointless arrow shot near him, flying to his far left. Though Pierre hadn’t gotten a good look at the soldiers to know whether they were Imperial or something else, it was obvious that none were Bosmer, or Mer to begin with. If only Pierre himself had a bow. 

But he didn’t. The original plan he had come up with consisted of going to a lowly village and trading off all of his stolen goods, meanwhile totally undetected by anyone who would care to know who he was. He thought he’d be at a village in time to not need a weapon. It had been a very foolish mistake, and he was paying the consequences. When he had a moment to think about something other than saving his hide, he’d have to make it a priority to pray to Stendarr more often. 

Inside his ears he could hear his own racing heartbeat as it fought to supply him life and breath. The shouting was growing ever-fainter. However, his own fear did not curtail. Currently, he was in a foreign land in the middle of a forest, weaponless. Unless a village sprang up from nowhere, it would be a difficult endeavor to go about looking for one undetected. If the military worked the same as it did back home, they’d talk, and bring word about him to any listening ear. Skyrim, however, thought Pierre, is big. Maybe he’d stay safe. Maybe. 

His chest felt as if it was on fire, his feet as if they were gone from his legs. Once more, they carried him sharply to the left, and after a few moments, to the right. Men were still thundering for him, but they seemed to be less in number and motivation. Then again, his own body could’ve been tiring, mistaking the several voices for a pair. He willed his body further, faster. As he did, the wind picked up, roaring beside his body like a living voice. Its angry majesty energized him, and the great evergreens surrounding him transformed into gigantic rocks covered head to toe in moss.

Trees continued rushing past, but ended abruptly, and Pierre stopped. 

It took a moment of steady listening to realize that the only things calling were birds in the grand trees. It brought Pierre to silence after this realization. He had to make sure his ears heard correctly. Locating the nearest patch of overgrown grass, Pierre dove in. Being cautious was never foolish. 

Then, breath held, he watched and listened. Magnific trees surrounding him grew branches of various sizes and lengths, crisp leaves growing in abundance. Many evergreens were nearby as well, noble and a deep green. The birds singing couldn’t be seen in these trees, but their song resounded. They called to each other from distances. Just listening brought Pierre’s stolen breath steadily back. Cloud pockets of steam came with it as he breathed, each time becoming longer in length. 

Directly ahead, so far that he had to blink a few times to believe himself, was the tiniest dot of something unnatural. It was crimson, and becoming smaller each second. The last of the soldiers. Imperial soldiers. Pierre had never been in Skyrim before or heard much about it; he had no idea that the Imperial Empire controlled the land. However, the new information didn’t frighten him, as he originally expected it to, since it would mean he’d have to adapt further. The Empire stuck its nose everywhere. Imperials were the same. A smirk faintly glided onto his face. Had he anyone to talk to, he’d be able to tell the jokes about the Empire that came to mind. 

After the red dot faded away into the other half of the forest, Pierre sprang up, a newfound, hopeful energy inside him. 

Knowing that he had to sacrifice the items that would bring him coin was certainly a costly setback. Remembering it brought on the taste of dry bark in his mouth. But it was much better that he had dropped it and not been arrested for illegally crossing into Skyrim. That much couldn’t be denied.

Now he only needed to find a village, and one that could benefit him. Work or hospitable people―he’d take both. One thing was clear, however: this was Skyrim, a land where the only bit of knowledge he had about it was how bitter cold it was. Anything could lie ahead. 

Nothing he couldn’t handle. There had been plenty instances before him that pushed his limits of wit. Just stealing the things he had he thought to be one of the most trying things possible. Thieving wasn’t his forte. 

The brush surrounding him soaked into his eyes, the dotting sunlight into his skin. The calm of it was the most unfamiliar aspect of it all. His life didn’t compare to anything about ‘calm’. His skin crawled. He took one step forward with intentions to keep moving, until his poor boots squashed beneath him into freezing moisture.

With a displeased grunt, Pierre tore the boot from his foot and onto the leaf-ridden ground. Then, he did the same to the next, and brought himself down with it. Out in the open, his toes felt no warmer. In fact, it was almost colder entirely, the energy in his veins dying down, making the frost around him and the heat from his breath much more real. Pierre started the process of not freezing to death by wringing out the boots. Hardly any water spilled from them, since the majority was trapped in the hide. They would need a warm fire.

Looking around, it’d take a man both blind and deaf to not understand that wood was plentiful. It was rather unfortunate Pierre had nothing to cut it with. He bitterly recalled the weapons that had momentarily been his. The dead twigs on the ground could burn, though. They would have to do.

Pierre rose up from the dirt to scrounge for anything with enough mass and dryness to burn. He stashed twigs into the crook of his arm. After finding the droppings of a fox, he held them precariously in his left hand. Then, he proceeded back to the disturbed ground with his boots, throwing all of his findings down into an incongruous pile.

The pitiful mess would suffice. Pierre worked with the stronger twigs, expertly managing it, gingerly blowing at them when an ember seemed to be fighting to come to life. As he worked, the freeze seemed to finally catch up to his body, and the tips of his fingers steadily grew stiff and numb. He felt like the dragons of old lore with the steam that poured from his nostrils, the fire below him another example of his breath. 

At last, the embers gave way and created a blaze. Pierre’s mouth melted into a satisfied grin. He situated himself on the ground, holding out his numb fingers to the flame. Once they felt to reattached to his hand, he brought his boots close. They were old boots, a few years too old to be good enough for trekking as he was. 

The fire popped here and there. A comforting noise, many would think. Anywhere with a good fire could be a good place, except when it came to Pierre. Shades of orange and yellow contrasted brilliantly with the browns and whites surrounding him, making the fire seem that much warmer. The heat was nice, but he couldn’t look at it very long without his eyes watering from the smoke and his cough to rise. 

Skyrim. Most lands kept to their own, trading tales strictly related to that of where they resided. Skyrim was just another land to most, but it wasn’t to say that there weren’t those who dreamed outside of their doorstep. Bars at nighttime were a prime example of this shoved-away imagining―When drunks would pass ghost-stories around about crypts and animals and Nords. Mercenaries also enjoyed sharing tales of Skyrim, if they had been, or if they wished to someday go. 

Though, it wasn’t as if Pierre had ever hired a mercenary to chat to, let alone have time to listen to bar tales. Nevertheless, word had a way of going around, and fragments of faraway lands, often Skyrim, leaked into common speak. 

And now, here he sat, in an unknown forest vast and cold. Something about simply being in Skyrim felt satisfying, knowing he was the one who seldom got to hear the tales, yet lived to experience them first-hand. 

A misty laugh huffed out of him. First and foremost, he’d have to live through it before the boasting could begin. Again, he rubbed his chilled hands, beckoning them closer to the open flame. As he did so, he organized his thoughts. After becoming warm, the next step would be to force his cold, soggy boots on, and head forwards towards―Divines help him―a village, where he would play his cards correctly and find a meal. After that, work. 

His plan should be more concrete than what it was. From a first glance, it felt that way. Until he remembered his place, which was in the middle of the forest, honest to goodness lost. He supposed there’d be no destination if he continued to stand dumbly. Pierre stuck his warmed toes into the almost-dry boots and stood up and smothered the flames away.

Moving the other way from where he had escaped the guards, Pierre meandered among the forest floor towards somewhere hopefully better.


	2. Riverwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre Of-the-Fire is momentarily out of harm's way, and eventually runs into his first Skyrim village, Riverwood. Although he wants to lay low, most everyone else has found a way to force him to do otherwise.

The sun told him it was late afternoon by the time he found civilization. Shadows were growing longer, and his tongue drier. Goose pimples covered his arms. His toes felt numb. The sight of smoke coming from a chimney set his stomach ablaze again. He could already see it: roasting bird, potatoes, _ sujamma _. His muscles defrosted and propelled him forward into the village.

The village was green, a much better color than the snowy forest he’d just been in. It was a ways down from where he was, which explained it. A big path ran through the middle of it all, houses on either side. A blacksmith was closest to the gates. Behind it was a mill. On the other side of the path were regular houses, but two of them had signs in front of them. They must have been some sort of shop. As he neared the gate, he looked about him, noticing everything in detail for the first time. Not just the village, but Skyrim. Wildflowers grew just as bountiful as the grass. The water of the river running about a hundred feet away from him was a deep, endless blue. Mysterious. The mountain wasn’t far behind the east end of the village, gleaming white snow over the jagged tops. 

The cold was getting to him, so Pierre paced towards what looked like the inn. A man was standing outside of the place, leaning over the railing, staring at Pierre with deep-set eyes, making his purely curious face seem more menacing. Pierre avoided looking back at him. Coming up on the porch of the building was a dog. Trailing behind it was a boy, who, when seeing Pierre, took his turn to also stop and stare inquisitively. Pierre looked away as fast as possible, then hurried himself inside. 

The inside of the inn was degrees warmer than outside. A giant fire roared, and set Pierre’s spirits a little better. Locating the counter, he went and stood before it to browse what there was to drink. All was alcohol, but none looked like sujamma. The bottles were small and brown, written in a fancy scrawl of “Nord Mead”, others just “Ale”. A few green bottles of wine were on the shelf too. Pierre couldn’t see everything with the man tending the counter. 

“What can I get for ya?” the man asked in a plain tone. He didn’t appear intent on questioning who Pierre was. Making eye contact with him, nothing in his face spoke of curiosity. Perfect. 

“I’ll have a . . .” There didn’t seem to be any sujamma. Asking for it didn’t feel right. “I’ll take an ale. And some bread.” 

“Give me four coins and we’re good.”

Pierre then went and fished a tiny pouch from inside his tunic. None of these few coins would be good in Skyrim, probably. There was no point in risking looking like an outsider. Suddenly, the ring on his finger had weight to it. He had completely forgotten he put some of his valuables on him. It was nothing too valuable, only a bronze ring. Pierre slid it off of him and held it out to the man.

“I ain’t got any coin on me right now.”

“We only take coin. You can sell that at the Riverwood Trader next door.” The man’s voice was deep, which made anything sound harsh, but his demeanor remained the same casual, unquestioning way, to Pierre’s approval. 

“Then I’ll be back.”

“Sure thing.”

With that, he left, at the very least warmer. The man and boy were still outside waiting, with Pierre caught in between. The dog yipped. He controlled himself of acting startled. 

As he went down the steps, a young man was rushing towards him, though not looking at him. He wasn’t focused on Pierre, but on the inn behind him. Pierre walked a little faster. 

“What’s the hurry, Sven?” called the boy from the porch. 

“My ma tells me she saw a dragon. If I don’t let everyone else know for her, it’ll be my deathbed.”

Dragons. Only in faerytales had he heard about trouble with dragons. Pierre tried to not think about it as he entered the general store. 

What a lousy plan. These people had their own issues to yell aloud too. It was a man and a young woman staring daggers at each other so heatedly, that neither turned their head at Pierre’s entrance. In fact, they hadn’t noticed it at all. They were yelling at each other as if completely alone. 

“Well, one of us has to do something,” argued the young lady. 

“I said no!” the man exclaimed. “No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!”

“Well, what are you gonna do then, huh? Let’s hear it!” 

The girls features were all stubborn points, deep-set eyes that couldn’t see above her own brow bone. Her arms crossed over her. The man looked back with the same amount of spirit. 

“We are done talking about this.” It was at this moment that the man turned, then saw Pierre standing uncomfortably. “Oh,” he grumbled, “a customer. Sorry you had to hear that.”

To keep a low profile, he should just mind his own business. The girl still stood there, glaring at the man at the counter, still taking no notice of Pierre. There was anger in her eyes, but not hatred. No. Desperacy. 

“Did something happen?” asked Pierre.

The man cringed, his few whiskers for a mustache and beard going sideways. “I don’t know what you overheard, but the Trader is still open.”

“I just need to sell this,” said Pierre, sliding the ring off of his finger and onto the counter. Just as the man was going to take it, the girl interrupted.

“If Lucan won’t tell you, I will,” she declared. 

“Camilla―” Lucan started with a growl.

The girl, Camilla, ignored him. “Some bandits came and stole our prized possession, and my brother Lucan refuses to do anything about it.”

“Oh,” Pierre replied, looking back to Lucan for confirmation. His mouth was pressed in an embarrassed line. He shot his sister a look. 

“We did have a bit of a . . . break-in. But they were only after that one thing.” Upon saying ‘one thing’, he gave Camilla a face even more sour than the one before. He swiped Pierre’s ring from the counter and protruded seven coins. “Our golden claw.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Pierre replied, not knowing what else to say. The coins dropped into his hand were heavy and shone dully in the light of the fireplace behind him. Skyrim currency. It was much larger than any coins he’d carried before. 

Lucan nodded glumly. “Me too. Thank you for your business.” 

Pierre left, Camilla’s call to not be a stranger escaping through the slit of the door before it shut behind him. 

Heading back to the inn, the man still leaned over the fence, now with a mug of ale. The dog and boy were gone. They were up on the path, behind the inn, playing with a girl. Still, the man drinking said nothing, only looked at him. 

Back inside was the young man who was running earlier. A lute was in his arms, and he strummed chords. Pierre had to admit, it was likely one of the worst bards he’d heard yet. He looked at Pierre, though said nothing. His eyes were curious, meek. 

“I’ll take that bread and ale,” Pierre said, now at the counter. The man brought it up instantly. He must have been waiting for him. Pierre put the four coins on the counter and took his meal by the fire. Before he began eating, he slid off his boots and placed them on the edge of the pit so that they’d actually dry. 

Not much flavor of the food and drink truly reached Pierre as he partook in it. The nerves of less than an hour ago were back in his stomach, realizing what he had just been through, and what lay ahead. The first plan he had conjured up before he crossed Skyrim’s border felt distant. He wasn’t sure where to begin. He wished he could be invisible, at least for awhile. 

The bread’s texture was tough and chewy, making it take awhile to be eaten. Maybe he wouldn’t feel too hungry for awhile until he could get some coin from work. The ale was warm but still flavorless. A slight tremor had come in his right hand, and he willed it to stop. It did not. How childish. He wished he had a bow.

“Did I hear you right, Sven?” A woman’s voice snapped Pierre from whatever reverie he had been in. A break had happened in the poor music, and, as he pondered on it, it had been for awhile. Their voices were rather hushed, but the bench he sat at was but feet from them.

“Yes. I don’t believe the old woman myself, but she insisted I made sure everyone knew.”

“ . . . Did she say where she saw it?”

“Yes. Over the mountain, behind the crypt. She told me it was black as night.” Sven laughed. “I’m sure it was only a storm cloud, if it was just my ma who saw it.”

Pierre couldn’t see their faces, but he reckoned that the other woman looked grave. She said nothing for a moment. Then, in an even lower voice, said, “I’m not so sure.” Another second passed. The playing resumed. Pierre’s ears ached. 

The tremor in his hand had only gotten worse. If only he had more coin for more drink. Just at that moment, the bartender spoke to the woman. “Delphine,” he called. “We need that shipment of ale, and soon.”

“It doesn’t arrive ‘til Sondas,” she replied. “Are we that low?”

“Embry’s been drinking enough to drain the river. And we got a stranger drinking too.”

Pierre sunk a little more into his shoulders. 

“How ‘bout I go to Whiterun and get it now, then? Last I heard, Lucan needs his anyways,” Delphine suggested. Spying over, Delphine was already disappeared somewhere to prepare for the journey. Before the bartender could catch him being curious, he turned his face back to the wall, and ripped off another chunk of bread. 

Once his meal was finished, save for a last few gulps of ale, which he felt too awkward to finish, Pierre went outside. He checked out the mill, where a woman and Bosmer were laboring. 

A stack of lumber was in his hands, and he was walking towards Pierre. Before he could turn, he spotted him, and walked faster. 

“Greetings, brother elf!” Pierre couldn’t quite react. He couldn’t feel a smile on his face, nor a scowl. Probably, he just seemed startled. His back was tense, and he couldn’t relax it. The bosmer was now directly in front of him, seemingly unaware of the heavy logs in his arms that made his muscles just as tense as Pierre’s back. A rim of sweat lined his exposed forehead, where his hair was tied back. “What brings you to Riverwood?”

Mostly, Pierre was so taken-aback because of the Bosmer being such. No one had ever relayed him stories of Bosmer being in Skyrim. He knew of Dunmer. But Bosmer tended to stay where they lived. And they preferred mild temperatures, which Skyrim didn’t seem to offer. “I’m looking for work,” Pierre stuttered. 

The Bosmer had a light in his eyes that was focused and friendly. He smiled, but not too widely, just to show some sort of appreciation for Pierre’s presence and response. “If you talk to Hod or Gerdur, I’m sure they’d be willing to give you some. I’m Faendel.”

“I’ll talk to them,” Pierre said. 

“Riverwood’s agreeable enough, for a Nord village. It’ll be nice to see a familiar face around.” 

“You’d better take that lumber,” said Pierre, noticing the strain in Faendel.

“Yes, if you’ll excuse me. Good to meet you, elf brother.” After Pierre made way, Faendel continued on, and laid the logs down adjacent to the mill. 

The woman, a nord, was up on that mill, about to lift a log. As she hoisted part of it on her shoulder, Pierre clambered onto the mill and stood behind her. 

She too was strained, but nevertheless could support the heavy tree trunk and direct it onto the shoot to be cut. Her plain blond hair was prettily pinned back behind both ears. She was wearing gloves, but they were worn; hardly any fabric remained on the fingertips. 

“Are you Gerdur?” Pierre asked, to which she started at. 

“By the gods!” she cried, then turned, slightly peeved. “I am. Who are you, stranger?” Her accent was thick as honey, though no smoother than the jagged rocks that made up the mountain next to the village. 

Best to stay low for as long as he could manage. “Just looking for work. Faendel told me you could give me some.”

“Aye, that I can do. But not now.”

Pierre groaned in his head. When he was about to ask why, Gerdur filled in.

“I got word from Sven about dragons. Riverwood’s defenseless if there’s an attack. I can’t leave the mill, and none of the folk here can brave the roads to Whiterun to send soldiers here. We need protection. Stranger, could I ask you to do this for us?”

“I would, but I don’t have anything. I need supplies, and more importantly, coin.”

“Well, I can help you with that. We take care of our own here. But would you do this for us, if I give you what you need?” She was kind enough, though pushy. Pierre nodded, muttering an acceptance of the task. In return, she held a hand up. “Then follow me.” Without waiting for him, Gerdur went off of the mill and to its side, where there was a knapsack. “Take this,” she instructed, just in time for Pierre to be behind her again. Taking it, he opened and peered inside. “There should be some rations, extra clothes, and a few coins.”

Pierre slung the knapsack over his shoulder. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

“Thank Faendel. Normally that’s what he takes on his wee hunting trips across the river, but he’s not going anywhere today.”

He nodded, but coughed a bit self-consciously. “Where can I see about getting a weapon of some sort?”

“Ah, of course.” Her arms crossed over her. “Talk to Alvor, our blacksmith. Let him know I told him to give you something. He’s just across the bridge here, to the left.” 

So then he was going to the blacksmith’s. The man was large, and looked like he lived a simple life of metal-hammering and beef-eating. The simplicity was tempting. Dirt and soot covered the blacksmith’s face. “Halloa,” he greeted upon seeing Pierre, the stranger. His foot was pressing at the pedal to the grindstone, sharpening an iron sword.

“Gerdur told me you’d give me a weapon. I’m going to―er―Whiterun, to see about the dragon.” Momentarily the name of the city was lost to him. It was unlike anything he’d ever heard for a city name. 

“That so?” He asked. “Well, I can give you a dagger. Take that one, on the table. Just finished it.” 

Pierre took it, weighing the weapon in his hand. He wished he had a bow. “This will be fine. Thank you,” he said. 

“By Ysmir, if it’s simple and strong, I can forge it. You’ll have no problem getting there now.” 

After that, he was going to return to Gerdur to announce his departure, but she was already back atop the mill, lifting at another trunk. Just after she dropped it into the shoot, she looked over, saw him, and gave a curt nod. Time to go. Pierre nodded slightly back, adjusted the knapsack on his back, and walked forward, towards the end of town. 

What marked the end was an excuse of a wall. The thing was cobbled and old, with moss growing between the crack of each rock. Maybe at one point in history it had been used. Perhaps even a gate had existed, judging by the gaping hole, but if one had been there, it was long gone. If dragons were really in Skyrim, then this place was done for. Without soldiers, at least. 

The inside of Pierre’s cheek was quickly gaining the taste of blood. The soldiers who had pursued him he hoped were something else from the ones that’d be in Whiterun. Why exactly had he let himself get roped into this task anyways? Chopping wood would’ve been more preferable. Go let his ‘elf-brother’ do this―he went hunting, he could defend himself. 

An elk was visible up on the path, across the bridge, standing next to a tree. It was unaware of its surroundings, chomping at some grass. The chill in the air didn’t seem to bother it. Skyrim was its home, it had no reason to feel the cold. 

Now on the bridge, he looked out over the river. Black rocks were peeking from the water. Little fish could be seen swimming around them. A small waterfall was just up ahead, and salmon were springing from it. It seemed the elk was watching it happen. Only observing. The stone of the bridge felt hard under Pierre’s boots. 

Off of the bridge, he approached the elk as casually as his regular gait. He was bosmer, all animals knew him. Pierre understood that even in this foreign land, because all places he’d been to for the entirety of this life responded the same. The elk at last noticed him, but did not panic. It began to walk, but it was calm, understanding. Hesitantly, because this wasn’t always safe, Pierre held out his hand. The elk again didn’t panic. As they walked together, he lightly stroked its wiry coat. 

They were so different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed. This chapter had been really fun for me to write; it's interesting and nostalgic to be able to describe characters and places from this game, and give them my own bit of character as well. 
> 
> The songs I listened to writing this are the same as last chapter's. I wrote them basically in the same time-chunk. Skyrim's soundtrack is just so beautiful, so naturally it was very inspiring to write to.


	3. Just Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After following through with his task from Gerdur, Pierre Of-the-Fire makes the decision to remain in the city of Whiterun. The people are friendly, the place feels clean, and it's big enough to not draw attention to himself. The only problem is that he needs money.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update; school has gotten busy. I'll do my best to be on time for next week.

Whiterun was open and bright, and surprisingly clean. Maybe it was the temple of Kynareth that made everything feel strong and hopeful. Despite Pierre feeling at a dead-end after the dragon warning, he thought finding some sort of purpose was possible, even if for just a little while. 

He lodged himself in an inn called The Bannered Mare. At nighttime it was the place to be, but Pierre didn’t bother with acquainting himself with almost any of the crowd there. Too many brawls, for one. The only person he could bear sitting by to drink ended up being, somehow, a wood elf, who also liked to keep to herself. She wasn’t nice, but wasn’t mean either, so the two of them made good company for drinking. 

All sorts of people, all quite friendly, were found in the marketplace. The phenomenon was alien to him―marketplaces were destinations to argue and haggle. Men and women chatted about their day to each other and gossiped. Children ran through the streets, not making trouble, but playing. It was a little overwhelming for Pierre.

Several days had passed since his narrow escape in the forest. He’d spoken to the Jarl, and now he was to his own devices. He’d run out of coin to spend on any of the stalls due to drink, which had been the opposite of his plan. Every night it was fun sitting with the Bosmer, watching as the more deep in her cups she got, the more she flirted with the waitress, Saadia. But now he had to face facts: he needed coin, and he needed a place to earn it that wasn’t so loud. Spotting the alchemy shop behind him, he ducked inside.

Pierre was good at alchemy. From a young age it was a necessity that he learned it. Almost every week he would come under with something. It was a miracle that none of his bouts of illness killed him. Although alchemy had always been done out of necessity, there was still something about it that was relaxing.

As he got a look of where he was, he spotted the alchemy table in the rightmost corner, unused. A counter with a million different ingredients on it was straight ahead. A woman stood behind it, eyeing him with curiosity. 

“I’ve never seen you around before,” she observed. She sounded kind.

“No I’m . . . Not from Whiterun.”

“From where do you hail?”

“Um . . .” That was a good question. There were several places he could say and feel truthful about all of them. Although he didn’t want to spill everything about him to anyone and everyone, it didn’t feel as urgent to stay low and ambiguous as possible. “I’m new to Skyrim.” That was the easiest thing to say, as saying anything else would require more explanation than he wanted to give. 

She smiled; it was as kind as her voice. “I see. I’m from Cyrodil. Skyrim’s a nice place, but sometimes I do miss home.”

He was now at the counter. “Can I use the alchemy table?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’m sure we’re the same as new people in a new land―I was penniless when I first came to Skyrim. Your first mixture is on the house.”

“Thank you very much,” he said, feeling his spirits brightening.

“What are you going to make?”

“Something for treating illness,” Pierre replied. 

Nodding, the woman looked at the shelves behind her and grabbed some feathers and a claw of a crab. Neither had a color or pattern familiar to him. She must have noticed the confusion on his face. “This is the feather of a hawk and the claw of a mudcrab.”

“Mudcrab?”

“They’re very common here. They bury in the ground by water and burst out of nowhere when you walk by. Annoying things, from what my supplier used to say.”

Pierre wondered if arrows could penetrate their shell. He wanted to hunt. Hunting was also like alchemy to him; it was a moment to be with himself and his thoughts. To dream of something more.

Grabbing the ingredients, he went to the table and began grinding them up. Even though he had never used such things to make a potion, the process was the same with almost everything. It didn’t take him any longer than normal for the potion to begin its process.

“You seem to be an experienced alchemist,” said the woman, an air of surprise to her. 

He smiled slightly. “I have a few years of practice. I used to collect my ingredients to make myself potions.” Why was he telling her so much? Truthfully, the information was vague, but he had never given a stranger as much as a clue about himself. 

The place was humble and warm, and almost lonely. The woman’s smile was much more apparent than his. “You gathered your own ingredients?”

“Of course.”

Her arms leaned on the counter, crossed over one another. “Pardon my bluntness, but do you need work? I’ve been needing a new supplier. My other one moved to Solitude to care for her mother, and I don’t have the money to keep the shop closed to get the ingredients I need myself.”

“Well . . .”

“I could supply you with things to carry the ingredients, more alchemical training, a weapon for the creatures I’d need. And gold, of course.”

It was an offer that would be stupid to pass. Once he made enough money, he could worry about what he really wanted to do with his life. Pierre caught himself already nodding, and his hand reaching out to shake hers. “I’ll take you up on that.”

Her eyes crinkled with joy and compassion. “Great! Oh! I never asked for your name. I’m Arcadia.”

“Pierre Of-the-Fire. It’s a pleasure, Arcadia.”

“You can start today, if you like, or tomorrow.”

“Today is fine. I didn’t have much planned.” 

Holding up a finger, Arcadia left from behind the counter and through a door. Moments later, she was back, and a pouch of what Pierre presumed was gold in her hand. She held it out to him, and he took it, its weight heavy and satisfying in his hand. 

“Use this to buy whatever weapon you can use best.”

“I don’t have to pay for it?”

“Don’t be silly. It’s for my benefit, so you shouldn’t pay for it. My last apprentice used a bow, but I don’t want to assume that just because you’re a Bosmer―”

“Er, well . . .” He thought it through, and quickly realized that there was no scenario where he could keep the money for himself. “You assumed right. I use a bow best.”

“Oh!” She laughed, relieved. “Then you can use the one I still have from him. Once it’s no good, a new one can be bought.”

Pierre gave the money back. The action made his stomach tight. He made sure to not change his expression.

“So in that case . . .” Arcadia looked about herself, analyzing something, before another flurry of surprise came over her. The woman seemed organized, from how tidy the shop was. Whatever mental list was in her head, she just crossed something off. “The Companions bought two dozen healing potions from me a few days ago, and they’re all ready to be shipped over.” Waving him over, Pierre followed her to the door she had went through minutes ago. 

Behind it was a wooden case chalk-full of red vials of varying shapes and sizes. “Can you take these for me?”

He nodded, but looked at her. “Who are the Companions?”

A moment passed before she spoke. “It's been so long since I’ve met another outsider. The Companions live up in the old mead hall Jorrvaskr, past the market and tree of life. They’re Skyrim’s best warriors. And they always are in need of my potions.” Planting a hand on her hip, she pointed down to the crate. “If you go up the stairs in the market and take a right at the tree, you’ll see some doors. Just knock at them, and Tilma the Haggard will tell you where to put it. She looks after the place.”

He nodded once more, then heaved the potions up. 

The crate became heavier the longer he held it, but it wasn’t the heaviest load he’d bore. As he went up the stairs, the tree came into view. It was a beautiful tree, as he observed upon first getting to Whiterun. The leaves covering it were a lush pink. The branches extended out as if it wished to touch every corner of the world. Its name couldn’t be any more accurate― it was a tree of life. 

At the doors of the Jorrvaskr, Pierre set down the potions, rolled his shoulders, and knocked more confidently than he felt. 

An elderly woman answered. Indeed, she looked haggard from years of endless working. “What is your business?” she asked. 

Pierre drank in what he could see of the inside of the mead hall. There was a roaring fire behind a table meant to seat tens of people. Only three sat at it, one old and bearded, though wearing armor as if he was ready to take on the world the moment duty called.

“I have potions from Arcadia,” announced Pierre. His voice had been loud enough for the three inside to hear. None paid any attention but the old man, though. A curious look lay on his face, as if he saw something about Pierre beyond a new alchemy apprentice. Maybe he could tell that he was actually a criminal in the eyes of Skyrim law. Pierre averted his gaze.

“Please bring them down this way,” Tilma instructed, her arm out to let him know he could come in. She brought him to a staircase. Although he wanted to look more closely at the table trio, the glare from the man kept his eyes away from any of them. 

He set the crate down in a storage room. There were shelves of wine and mead, brooms, and buckets with sponges. Tilma gave her thanks, then showed him out before he could notice anything about any of the rest of the place. 

Before he was out the door, he accidentally locked glares with the man again. Pierre wanted to kick himself. He felt uneasy. Maybe the man really did know he should be in prison. Pierre looked away, but still could feel the eyes on him, even as he left through the door. 

He couldn’t get back to the apothecary fast enough, though being there didn’t settle his nerves any. Arcadia gave him some recipes for potions to make. Just as he began to focus on his work, her question tugged him away from any feeling of relaxation that had begun to surface. 

“So, what brought you to Skyrim?” she asked.

He no longer felt like telling anyone anything, not with that old man being able to see through him so easily. Being any more loud about his presence might put suspicion in the authorities, and Pierre wasn’t going to make the assumption that the law was lax. It was likely that word spread fast around Skyrim. Someone crossed the border illegally, then ran away from authority, headed north. Pierre’s head buzzed.

“Nothing, really,” he lied. “Just work.”


	4. Harbinger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly a month has passed since Pierre's first delivery working for Arcadia at the Cauldron. So far, it appears that his nervousness about being arrested was all over nothing, until the very man who had seemed to know he was a criminal comes waltzing through the door.
> 
> Pierre must make a decision: does he stick with what he knows, or what his heart wants?

“Pierre, I’m running low on potions of Resist Cold,” Arcadia announced from over the counter. Pierre, at the alchemy table, turned to get the ingredients from her. 

A month had passed under her wing. Already, he’d learned the ins and outs of Skyrim alchemy. Some of the ingredients he gathered and mixed were completely foreign to him, like Dragon’s Tongue, Creep Cluster, and the wings of Luna Moths. Not to mention mudcrabs and the occasional Sabre Cat. Arcadia was patient, though, and never became too cross when he collected the wrong things.

The mistakes only happened for about the first week or two. Skyrim was beginning to settle on him, feel more familiar, even if it still was a strange place.

It was taking Arcadia longer than usual, ducked beneath the counter, to retrieve what she was looking for. He leaned over to spot where she was looking. Not seeing where his arms were, they knocked over a vial of what appeared to be a poison. It landed right next to the woman. She gave a start, hitting her head where the counter’s edge creeped out. 

Giving a cry of pain, she covered her head and backed out from where she had been crouched.

Pierre’s cheeks felt like they were on fire. “I’ll go get a cloth,” he stammered as Arcadia realized what had broken.

“They’re through the door,” Arcadia instructed.

He nodded and went into the back. At first, he didn’t see anything but a table and dresser. Rummaging through the drawers, one of them was stocked with rags. 

The journey hadn’t taken more than half a minute, but upon his return to the counter, a man was standing in front of it.

Pierre almost yelped himself, if he hadn’t been good at keeping his composure in front of people like this. The man who walked in wasn’t just another customer, but the one Pierre saw when making his first delivery. The one who could see through him like paper up to light.

Pretending he saw nothing, he went to clean up his mess. Arcadia stood as far from it as possible, still behind the counter. Pierre sank to his knees and began dabbing at the poison mindlessly. Any moment, the guards would come to the door and have his hands bound, and he’d be on his road to prison.

“Wow, it’s an honor to have you here, Kodlak Whitemane,” gasped Arcadia. 

“I beseech you, Arcadia. However, I am not here for potions. I’m here to speak with your apprentice.”

Pierre’s heart hammered in his chest. Already, he had his plan. There was another door in which he could exit from; it ran behind the market and the houses. If he made a break for it to the gate, he could go through the guard’s post and vault over the wall, land on the ground in a roll, take a horse, and gallop his merry way to whatever town was close, yet far enough to make himself anonymous.

But he still needed money, and his first earning was in three days. He could grab the potions closest to them and sell them at his next city. However, it would slow his escape down. Even though the man was old, he was fully armored, and had muscles which proved he could fling Pierre over his head like a sack of yams without much effort. 

Arcadia was calling his name. Whatever happened would have to be accepted. Reluctantly as life itself, he got to his feet and turned towards Kodlak Whitemane.

“Let’s go outside, boy. I’d like our conversation to be private.”

“Of course,” he managed to say. He began to go to the main door.

“No,” said Kodlak, “I’d prefer out back.”

Without saying anything, Pierre pivoted to go to the back door. He was too antsy to hold the door for the man or even look at him.

Opening the door to the outside, he awaited seeing the plethora of guards waiting to tackle and arrest his sorry hide. 

No one was there. Bright afternoon sunlight warmed the dirt path and the stone wall behind it. Pierre looked to each side of him, scanning for guards in the shadows. None that he could see.

“Relax, boy,” Kodlak said, commanding yet friendly. Somehow he was able to make such a combination possible. “You look like you’ve been struck by death in the flesh.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that, especially to someone who had enormous status, judging by Arcadia’s reaction, so he waited for the man to begin with his business.

“The Companions have been watching you, and they’re beginning to see what I did,” he started. His arms crossed over each other, not putting Pierre any more at ease. “Do you know what I saw?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Some kind of spark appeared in his eye. Not knavish, but not joyous either. Was it humor? Knowing? “When you delivered us the potions for the first time, I was able to get a decent look at you. I saw a strength that I haven’t noticed in someone for years. Normally, everyone from the outside is no different to me. I pay no mind to the people who come and go. But there is something different about you.”

“What makes you think that?” he blurted. “I didn’t do anything.” He was most definitely overstepping his place. But his curiosity was killing him as much as his fear. Did the old man see a criminal or someone just able to carry a heavy crate? It was impossible to imagine anyone seeing something beyond that. Pierre himself couldn’t see anything beyond that. 

“You carry yourself like a warrior, even if just carrying back your haul from the fields. You are decisive. You are calculating. There is a power that reeks from you,” said Kodlak, his certainty unwavering. Maybe the man was just crazy, and everyone tried to act like it wasn’t apparent.

Pierre already found his head shaking. “You’re mistaken. I’ve never fought in my life. I just know how to get by―this ain’t the first land I’ve settled in.”

Kodlak just kept staring at him, some thoughts at work in his head that he wasn’t expressing aloud. It was now getting on his nerves instead of being the cause of them. “Since you are determined to deflect my judgement, I’ll tell you this: as Harbinger of the Companions, I invite you to join. There is pay and board, and although it is not just my decision to let you in―there are tests―you would be a valued addition to our ranks.”

Before he could try and speak his mind again, Kodlak said to him, “Talk it over with your alchemist. No one is under a master as a Companion. We are family.” He then went back through the door whence they came. Numbly, Pierre followed after. Back inside, he resumed cleaning up the poison. Kodlak said his farewells to Arcadia.

“It was an absolute pleasure having you here in person,” Arcadia mentioned, smiling sweetly.

“It was nothing,” he disagreed, stopping in front of the counter again. Pierre begged inside his head that he would leave already. “While I’m here, I’ll put in another order: make it half a dozen healing potions and the other poisons. Have it delivered in a day or two. Let the extra coin go towards your apprentice.” The sound of a bag of Septims hitting the counter nearly echoed around the store.

“I’d be obliged to. Good day to you.”

The door shut, and it was at long last just him and Arcadia.

“Hm,” she chirped. “I wonder what brought Kodlak here in person. You don’t have to tell if you don’t want to, though!”

All of the poison he could manage to be soaked up from the floorboards gone, Pierre went back up and looked at her. She was a kind woman. Kind to the point where he imagined he would only feel guilty leaving her. After all, the shop didn’t make much money in the first place, and she’d be making even less without someone to gather ingredients and help mix more potions for her. 

It would only be unfair to keep the truth from her. “The man asked me to join the Companions. Said he ‘saw something in me’.”

Her jaw dropped. “Oh my,” she gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth. “That’s quite something to hear, especially from the Harbinger himself. What did you say to him?”

“Well,” he started, “I think the old man’s full of it. I’m not the warrior type.”  _ I just run from things. And I hardly have time to fight for anything other than myself. _ It’s why he’d fled to Skyrim in the first place, wasn’t it?

“Oh, but Pierre!” she objected. “You could do so much more with them instead of me. Pray tell that you’ll take him up on the offer anyway! I’ve never heard of Kodlak Whitemane himself seeking out someone . . .”

There he was again, shaking his head with enough force to give himself a kink in his neck. “It’d be better for both of us if I stayed here. You’d be barely scraping by―”

“Pierre, I know how to run my shop. I’ve been doing this for twenty years. Twenty! This wouldn’t be the first time it’s been just me and the Cauldron.” Her hands were on her hips, making her normal hunched posture much straighter. Possibly more confident, but Pierre had come to learn that her confidence ran as deep as her optimism. He felt a bit senseless for assuming she’d run herself dry on her own. “Tell me you’ll take Kodlak’s offer.”

“I don’t know!” he exclaimed. He paced once down the room. “I don’t know.”

The kindness of his heart wasn’t dominating the idea of staying, as much as he wished it was. Rather, he really didn’t want to be putting his hide on the line after spending all of his life doing it by necessity, not choice. 

_ We are family. _ The old man’s words pricked at the back of his mind. That was a word Pierre hadn’t had in his vocabulary for a very long time. Sometimes, he tried to remember, late at night when he couldn’t sleep, names and faces. Colors flitted by, but all too indistinguishable to know who or what they were.

Pierre liked Arcadia. However, he was an apprentice, and she was his master. 

_ No one is under a master as a Companion. _

_ The burning fires against the sticky, humid air. The papers with his name on it but another man’s signature. Splinters, burns, bruises. The constant sickness. Alone. Perpetually alone. _

But the likely possibility of dying . . . And for what? What were the Companions even vigilants for? Would the coin even be worth it?

“I can’t imagine what the pay is like as one of them . . .” Arcadia mused, reading his mind. “If I were a young fellow like you, I wouldn’t pass it up.”

“Want me gone that bad?” he chided.

“I just can’t believe it, is all,” she explained. “For the Harbinger of the Companions to come  _ in person _ to seek you out . . .”

Thinking about the past gave him nausea after too long. Perhaps, being a Companion, he wouldn’t have to wonder what family was like. It couldn’t hurt―after all, it being the opposite of his expectations wouldn’t feel personally damaging. 

Sighing, he steadily looked at his master, Arcadia. “I’ll do it,” he declared. “I’ll try and become a Companion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! It makes me so happy when I see more people have read Of-The-Fire or have left Kudos. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Again, as always, I give my gratitude for reading.


	5. Argan and the Welp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre has been working to prove himself to the Companions, but he can't catch a break from them, and it's beginning to wear on him. Although he's met an aspiring Companion, a farm-hand named Argan, even he is vastly different from Pierre. It can only be wondered if their differences are too strong.

Down below the cliff three wolves basked in the early morning sunlight. Their charcoal coats taking in all the heat made their chests rise and fall rapidly, their muzzles pant. 

Pierre Of-the-Fire’s bow was cocked and aimed at the closest one’s head. Once he’d shoot them, their meat would be no good, not even to his ridiculous palette. But their furs were warm, good for a rug or hide for minor smithing work. 

He’d do neither, because Jorlund Gray-Mane had bullied him into getting the hides for his own forge. Pierre knew to give respect where it was due―the elder’s craft was beyond anything he’d ever seen, as well as his Skyforge. Yet he couldn’t help but feel lame being his errand-boy. 

One of the dogs had gotten up, but not the one he had his sights on. Inevitably, they’d all have to go down, though. As fast as he was, he wasn’t quite skilled enough to outrun a small pack of fully-grown wolves, let alone one of them. 

Steadily, Pierre breathed in. The arrow’s point was sharp, able to pierce skin with the slightest touch. They were the good arrows he’d saved up for. His back and triceps flexed to keep the string pulled back. The other arm stayed tense to keep his form steady. An exhale. Only two moments passed. Another breath inward. Then, release. 

The arrow soared, whistling. It stayed true, planting itself center in the wolf’s skull. Not a second passed before the beast went down. Just as quickly, the others were alerted to the danger, and spotted Pierre. Their bound upwards began. 

He knew better than to panic. Reaching behind him, he produced another arrow. Notching it in place, he aimed, breathed, and released. A shot of air burst from his nose. The energy inside him was growing with the slight thrill. 

One by one, the wolves dropped like flies, until the only ones left were dead on the ground. Pierre approached them, then stopped. “Argan!” he yelled. 

Sure enough, Argan was next to him within seconds. He was only a year or two younger than Pierre, as he recalled, but his face was youthful and fresh. It gave him an air of purity. He wasn’t an errand-boy, or a companion at that. He was the son of a farmer, though ambitious, and hoped that through his efforts it might become apparent to those at the mead hall that potential was within him. Usually, he was helping with hauls like these. 

No one paid any attention to him. Except Pierre. Pierre understood what it was like to work tirelessly to still end the day as a shadow. And he was cute. Being surrounded by argonians and mer all his life, Pierre never saw the likes of Redguard. His nose was flat and small, his hair coily and short. 

Pierre hauled up the wolf closest to him. Argan got the one further away. He waited for him to catch up. The beast was heavy on his back, but their pace didn’t falter. “You should teach me how to make my hair curl like that,” suggested Pierre. He looked at Argan, who was looking at him as well.

The idea took a moment to register before he chuckled, his cheeks darkening. “This is how it naturally grows. There’s nothing to teach.” There was a smile genuine to only him, like the chime of nirnroot. 

Pierre didn’t know what to say. Apparently, his friend didn’t either. The rest of the journey was completed in painful silence. Maybe the wolf was heavier than he first expected. His spine was beginning to scream at him. It only made the trek feel twice as long as it already was. 

Mercilessly slow, they managed through the marketplace. The elf working at his meat stand always congratulated Pierre when seeing his haul. All he could do was weakly smile back. One, Pierre at this point was in horrible anguish over the incoming stairs, and two, he could not remember the bosmer’s name to save his life. It felt a bit shameful, him being of the same kind. And since the one he used to drink with had taken off, it felt even more awkward. 

As their journey finally came to its near-end when in front of the mead hall, he and Argan dropped the animals off their backs and breathed hard, nearly collapsing from the exertion. The spot to do this was ideal―anyone who cared to catch them breaking was behind the mead hall or inside it. Then, with a groan, they went to the skyforge, dropped the wolves once more, and went back down to find something else to do. Sharpening a sword, repairing a dummy, anything. Although, going to retrieve the last wolf was the priority.

“Lazy-ass,” commented Skjor, spotting Pierre sitting on a bench underneath the shade. 

All he intended to do was rest for a moment before beginning said work. But such an excuse wouldn’t matter in the eyes of Skjor. Him and Aela the Huntress frightened Pierre the most. Rather, ticked him off. Pierre had long foregone being afraid of authority. Anymore it just irked him. He’d been running from it for so long. Maybe, one day as a true companion, he’d have the right to tell the full tale in front of the roaring fire inside, a bottle of good ale in hand. 

It took all self-control and some from the gods themselves to make Pierre not wrinkle his nose or furrow his brows. Instead, he stood up and walked back towards the city gate. He spotted Argan already in the market, not pausing like him to relax. The companions never relaxed, and Pierre supposed that if it was pure dedication driving what they did, they didn’t want to either. Pierre just needed money, damn if it was pure or dirty. The only reason he hadn’t yet starved to death was the fact that he ate two meals a day, free of charge, in Jorrvaskr.

Suddenly, Pierre began feeling quite low. Though, it didn’t come to him as much surprise. He was beginning to feel young again in a way that wore down his conscience. Some nights, he was taken back to the fire pits, the heat sometimes getting too close to him and burning his flesh. But it did not matter to the others. It was his job, and if he wasn’t careful, damn the consequences. The only time he slept was when the others were gone until the early morning, readying to cook or clean. There was never freedom. There was never a choice.

The next haul was also completed in quietude. Pierre felt that if he tried to make pleasant conversation, it would somehow come out sour. Or Argan would point out as well how he had taken a break. 

Finally, with help from Argan, they dropped the beast to the stone of the skyforge with a lifeless ‘thump’. 

They clasped hands in acknowledgement that the task was done, smiling with relief.

“Well done,” Argan said.

“Always glad to have your help.”

Both then turned to leave, Argan taking the lead, grinning still. Pierre regretted trying to go as well. “Welp,” called Jorlund. He only ever called Pierre that. Argan even lacked status to be addressed as it. Pierre turned, feeling the color in his dark skin leave. “What are you leaving for? There are dead dogs before me waiting to get skinned.”

Pierre said nothing and grabbed a knife, sat his ass down, and went quietly to work, dreaming about his payment of a hot dinner of fish and soft bread. 

\-----------

The night didn’t improve his temper at all. In fact, it worsened it. Skinning and cleaning weren’t completed until late into the evening, when a chill was in the air, the stars were out, and the only source of light outside the torches was the moon. Luckily, the housemaids handled the butchering of the animals, which was then sent to the bosmer who sold meat. Companions refused to eat the flesh of the wolf, only wear it. 

Arms and back aching, Pierre thought the wooden chair at the dining table was the most comfortable piece of furniture in Tamriel. His body practically fell into it, his eyes feasting on the array of foods and desserts assorted on the table. Pheasant, chicken, salmon, leeks, pastries, and cheese glittered on their plates like precious stones.

Just as he grabbed a plate to fill up, he felt a presence behind him. Skjor. “Welp,” he said. “Take your dinner to the lower floor. It’s more appropriate for your position.”

His stomach lurched, and his appetite was gone. Pierre still hadn’t figured out what to say in response to orders from the Companions. He stuck with nodding his head and doing what he was told as fast as possible. Setting down the plate, he found the steps, shoulders hunched. 

Finally at his independence, he could release the growl that had been growing at the back of his throat all afternoon. Sure, he got food to eat and a warm place to lay his head, but for what? To only feel this way again? To avoid the law by sticking with those close to it? He wanted friends. He wanted to have more control than this. His fists opened and closed and felt the blood course through his useless veins. This place was not the family he was promised.

Argan was in the new blood room―a long room lined with beds and a table with chairs for all the welps whom were deemed as possibly beneficial to the Companions. It was where Pierre slept, a few other faces he saw now and again, and occasionally Argan. 

Argan was beginning to grin at him. It was the Argan smile―all spring breezes and water lilies. The sweat that had been framing his face like a halo all day had finally dried. His upper lip had the tiniest lining of foam from the mug of ale he was sipping at. Hand going up to wave, Pierre pushed it away, and he instead grabbed at his shoulder, planting a kiss on his neck. He used pressure, putting all of the emotions bubbling up into it. Argan made a noise in surprise, his muscles frozen in confusion.

Pierre didn’t care. He kept at it, kissing at him. The skin against him was warm. He could feel the pulse beneath him as it quickened with each caress. Breath puffed softly into his ears, warm. The mug of ale dropped and spilled. Then, Argan was giving back kisses. They were slower, more thoughtful. 

To hell with thoughtful. No one ever thought about either of them. Hands tugged at Argan’s shirt. He offered no resistance, standing up, the chair knocking back from the little amount of space between him and Pierre. Pierre pulled at him. Closer, closer, he needed to be closer. His mouth sucked at his lower lip. His hands perused around his back, up to his neck, into his coily hair. Sometimes he couldn’t feel if Argan was kissing or touching him anywhere beyond his middle back. It was ok. Pierre didn’t need to be touched, he just needed company.

It wasn’t his, but Pierre pushed Argan down onto the nearest bed. There was still too much between them. Pierre pulled his shirt off and tugged off Argan’s. Then, he filled in the space that had been momentarily split between them, planting his lips on his, feeling how they were beginning to swell. Then down to his neck, then down even further. The groan he could hear was satisfying. Argan continued with it each time Pierre’s lips touched down on him. His hands were in his long hair. 

But soon, the noises were coherent. “Pierre,” moaned Argan. 

Pierre kissed harder.

“Please, Pierre.”

He kissed more, the salt of sweat becoming apparent on Argan.

“Pierre . . . Pierre, stop.” He thought he didn’t hear right. He wanted more than this. His hands ventured further down. “Stop, Pierre!”

This time, Pierre did stop, looking up at the boy. Something was wrong. He wasn’t infatuated, eyes not full of hunger. They were startled. Afraid.

It all began to sink in about what just happened. Pierre practically fell out of the bed from how terribly he scrambled away. Locating his forgotten shirt, he put it on with as much grace as a dying deer. 

The silence between them was different than from the afternoon’s. It had tangibility to it; it could fill up the whole room and suffocate them. Moments later, Argan broke the quiet. “You don’t mean it, do you?” he asked, his voice more confident than how he looked. 

Pierre was paralyzed. Again, it almost didn’t register to him that his friend had spoken. He wanted the power to choose. He wanted freedom. He wanted companionship, and he nearly threw it away for just a little bit of self-indulgence. “I didn’t,” he choked out, wondering how he could ever right this wrong, ever get the life he wanted without being a shadow. Without coming to know and then hurt the far-and-few others with some goodness in them. 

Argan didn’t speak immediately either. He glared down at Pierre, no single emotion on his face more prevalent than another. “I . . . Had grown fond of you.”

“I’m only stressed.”

“Why? They’re only sizing you up. Why do you think you’re told to go hunt and tan the leather?” He swallowed hard. “I was helping you because I was fond of you. So far they’ve only asked me to shine shields and chop wood.”

Pierre’s eyes met the ground. It felt shameful even to look up at him. “I’m fond of you too. I’ve made a mistake.”

“Make it up to me when you’re a companion. Because if you got that far, you’ll have known why they’ve been working you like a slave.”

Pierre was tired of being a slave, but the words didn’t feel bitter to him, and never did. Somehow, it gave him hope. A window to see that his drive could be beyond petty coin. 

Argan didn’t stay the night. And he didn’t come back the next day. Or the next. After a week, Pierre gave up, and rightfully so. He never saw him again. 

He never became a Companion as his friend had expected him to. 

The words had almost carried him through. 

He had been so close. 


	6. In the Cell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow or another, Pierre Of-The-Fire has wound up in one of the worst possible places to be: prison. It's given him more than enough time to think and reflect, and with it, he's begun to feel differently about everything he's experienced thus far in Skyrim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School has just gotten out for the semester, which means my regular schedule can continue. I don't plan on dropping this series out of nowhere. Thank you for your continued support!

T he night was calm. Dark, and still. The night was different to everyone. Some were at home. Some were piss-drunk. Pierre was alone, letting the damp air and the smell of rot irritate him.

The rest of him was covered and warm, all the way up to his nose. All he needed was his eyes, to watch, to drink in what he was after. The hunger. The anger. The burning pit that had engulfed any other feeling. The feeling that coincided with an emptiness, somehow, as oil and water in the same glass could be together. 

Sometimes he forgot where he was, but then a noise would come from nowhere―a branch, a frog crying―and he’d remember why he was where he was. 

The place was freezing, hence why he was bundled to his eyeballs. He considered himself lucky to be able to at all. In the cell across from him, the woman had nothing, and on top of that, her feet and hands were in chains. 

That was about the extent Pierre’s gratefulness. Being a prisoner didn’t really make him feel all spiritual and homey. 

For some reason or another, it took two guards instead of one to haul his sorry skin into the cell. Pierre nearly felt insulted. He was broke, a dagger his only weapon, and his lodgings currently a sewer on the northside of town. 

Earlier in the afternoon, he recounted his money for the fifth time (there wasn’t much else to do) and realized he could afford a few loaves of bread. 

Or, he could double it if he went to do some fishing. 

“Come on. That lady’s too busy screamin’ about her produce to notice her purse bein’ a bit lighter,” Roe encouraged. She shoved him, throwing his balance off, nearly landing himself in the canal. 

“Piss off.” But truly, she was right. The dunmer selling fruits and vegetables was so occupied with vying for a passerby’s attention that it seemed to be the only thing in the world to her. Even the likes of Pierre could nab something off of her.

Flopping down beside him, her toes weren’t even close to touching the water like Pierre’s were. But where she lacked in height she made up in muscle. In that regard the two bosmer were complete opposites. “It’ll give you somethin’ to do, at least,” she speculated. “Better than sitting here to smell the shit in the water.”

It did stink terribly, especially being in the sewers. The first time Pierre set foot in them, he nearly vomited. 

Pushing himself up, Pierre dusted himself off. “Fine,” he said. “You win.”

“Use those extra Septims to buy yourself some new boots.” She grinned. It was a wicked kind of expression; not a smile that made flowers bloom. 

His boots had been lost to the reeking water but days ago. As he’d been repairing a tear in the sole, Roe went tearing down the dock. With no time to spare a hello, she bolted past him, boards shaking, inevitably causing the shoes to rickashay into the depths below. Later that night he would learn that she’d bit off more than she could chew stealing from the farmers and got caught. She had to book it all the way back so that no one could get a good look at her. It wasn’t the first story like this from her, nor did he expect it to be the last.

Snapped from the layers of reverie, Pierre now contemplated his own unlucky escape. The risk hadn’t even been as high―he’d tried to steal a purse, not half a barrel of potatoes and three chickens, and yet he was the one inside the cell, not Roe. 

When he had still been in Whiterun, spending his nights at the inn drinking with her, he never learned her name. They knew each other’s faces, and that was all that was necessary. Mostly, they joked or complained vaguely about trouble they found themselves in. However, one night was different. 

“You know, this is my last night here, bosmer.”

“Why address me by ‘bosmer’ when you’re one too?”

Roe tsked. “Just listen, alright?” Her cheeks burned a dark caramel from drink. “I was here in Whiterun on some business, but I’ve been taking too much time. I gotta go back. But listen, listen!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Listen.” Without warning, she took hold of his arm. Her grip was like steel. Pierre felt himself sober up a bit. “You ain’t gonna find shit for . . . for anything out here. You’re gonna get bored here. But me? I got money and I’m free as a bird.”

Even as he tried moving his arm, it was held in place by her. Pierre gave up, and instead asked “What’s your point,  _ bosmer _ ?”

Something about the question sent her giggling. For a few seconds it continued. Pierre found a smile growing too. “Come thief with me in Riften. A whole society of ‘em is there. Safest place in Skyrim.”

“Thieving ain’t my thing.” Pierre thought about where the last bit of stealing got him. At last, she let go of his arm. Pierre rubbed to bring feeling back. “You made it go numb, you bastard.”

This sent her into another round of hearty laughter. The waitress she always had her eye on looked with vague curiosity, Roe oblivious. “Listen, bosmer. All I’m sayin’ is, when you get bored, come down to Riften. I’ll find you. We can drink again.”

“Roe, you bastard,” Pierre murmured between shivers in his cell. It wasn’t her fault he was here, but it was. At least, that was how he felt. He clung to it. Feelings came and went sporadically in this place. A week had passed. Each day, his emotions left one by one. With nothing to do but think, and no one to share conversation with but his thoughts, he had quickly become depressed.

They never told him when he was leaving. Thieves were more despised than murderers in Riften. 

Roe wouldn’t tolerate this. Verbatim, she had said to him that after getting jailed once, she vowed to never spend another night in a shithole again. The intensity of the statement made him idly wonder how much worse her treatment had been than his. 

Clearly, the reason she had only been in prison for a night was because she broke out. Aching pain from idleness clung to Pierre’s arms and legs. Laying down was worse for him than at least doing  _ something _ . If she saw him, she’d tell him he looked like a broken animal.

Which he wasn’t. He was pissed.

Tossing the animal skins off, he looked about himself, knees still on the ground. This was the first time he bothered to observe his space. After all, there was so much to take in, like the dirt, and the stones, and the . . .

Something was etched into the wooden post. Some kind of sign. Though ornate, it seemed to depict an arrow pointing downwards. Pierre crawled closer. Nothing of note lay below where the arrow pointed. His eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. 

He spied to his left. A guard was posted. Because of his helmet, it was impossible to tell if he was watching him or taking a nap. The safest thing to do was wait.

So Pierre waited. And waited. That guard was hardly human. No one normal could stand completely stoic in one place for so long. Hours had passed before the waiting game without a change of post, and hours later did as well. The one and only thing that convinced him he wasn’t asleep was his sad small talk with one of the more angry prisoners, saying how disappointed he was that he had guard duty instead of being able to go fight dragons. This caused said prisoner to say all kinds of vile things in response, but it just made the guard chuckle. 

Dawn’s light was peeking through the barred window by the time a switch was to be made. Their way of changing shifts was idiotic: the guard left the room entirely. Pierre wasn’t complaining, though. It was his own window of opportunity. 

Hastily, he scanned for what the arrow indicated. Below, nothing. Above nothing. To the right, nothing. His fingers traced over the wood, over the stone, tore apart his bedding to see if anything was underneath. 

Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. Time was running short. That arrow had to have some kind of significance. His choler was growing with his confusion.

Again, he stared hard at the symbol, and the wall it was holding. Though anything of significance was lacking on the right side, the left was slightly different. Right next to the post, the rocks bulged to an extent just enough for someone as desperate as him to take notice of. 

Pierre experimentally pulled at one. It moved. 

There still wasn’t a guard at his post. He felt like a king. He began his work. The stones fell out with almost no resistance, as if they wanted free from their place on the wall just as much as he wanted out of his cell. Placing them on the floor in a soft way was the greatest challenge. 

Eventually, a hole big enough to crawl through had been made. A wicked smile stayed glued to his face.

Even as the guard he didn’t notice yelled at him to stop, he was still grinning like a madman. He was free as a bird. 

  
  



	7. Welcome, Jailbreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre Of-The-Fire's escape from Riften jail continues. His plight for freedom is exhilarating, only little does he know that it's about to become even more interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can all accept that I'm inconsistent with my updates. I PROMISE I WILL ANNOUNCE IF I WERE TO EVER DROP THIS OUT OF THE BLUE. For the benefit of future readers who might enjoy this lol. I can dream.

The hole in the wall eventually led him to emptying in part of the sewers. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a part that he recognized. Prisoners before him had set up camp at one point: In the corner sat a table, and in the other a pile of hay. Barrels stacked high against the wall. Pierre hungrily tore into them. All were either empty or equipped with rotting cabbage. 

The stone walls echoed vivaciously, the sound of angry guards rickoshaying into his ears. There wasn’t any time to stop. He looked at the waterfall and traced to where the water was flowing, then followed after it. Cold, grimy water splashed onto his feet. It stunk of waste. Luckily, the ratway had already trained him not to gag. 

The farther he crept, the louder the calls of his pursuers were. He jogged in an awkward crouch; the ceiling wasn’t tall enough for him to stand, even being a Bosmer. Although tall for his kind, he still only came to the nose of a Nord. 

Seeing much of anything through the darkness proved challenging. Pierre stopped short of crashing into wall upon realizing he’d reached the end. Before him was a circular shape made of wood. There was a crevice made to be a handle. He instinctively tugged on it. 

A blast of cool, humid air greeted him. Pierre saw the moon as it cast a calming light over the waters of Lake Honrich. The sewer emptied into the lake, adjacent to the docks. He shivered at the thought of the freezing water. 

There wasn’t any other choice, so he didn’t linger on his apprehension. In his head, he counted down, then dove on  _ two _ . 

He stayed underwater, swimming towards the docks. Once underneath part of them, he rose to the surface. Goose pimples ran up and down his entire body. But before he could go anywhere, he had to decide where it was he was going. Truthfully, he hadn’t yet thought ahead so far.

The Thieves Guild was meant for laying low. Although he wasn’t yet a formal member, Roe had put in good word about him (although they both knew it to be a lie), so one of the higher-ups, Brynjolf, said he had a few weeks to prove his worth. Surely, they could forgive a bump in the road. 

It sounded ridiculous. But Pierre had little choice. 

Avoiding any of the entrances, Pierre maneuvered around the gate’s perimeter, past the stables, and into the forest. Since arriving in Riften, he hadn’t been outside the gates. It would have been nice to see the trees in their full color again, the daylight highlighting the fiery reds and oranges of their leaves. Then again, sneaking around would’ve been a pain in the ass. 

Getting to the canal was easy enough, as its distance was relatively equal no matter where one was in the city. He backed further into the brush. Then, he took off in a run, using the speed to vault him some feet onto the wall. There was hardly any way to latch onto the stones. He was nearly to the top, but crashed down. His back met the cold ground with a painful  _ thump _ . Painful wheezes escaped him. His breath was gone. 

A minute passed with him on the ground, staring up at the moons and the stars, fighting to get air back in his lungs. His excuse for a tunic clung to his body, making the night sharp and arctic. Eventually, he felt he could stand. Again he went back, this time a little further. Then, he sprinted. First, his feet contacted the wall. He commanded them to keep going. Up higher and higher, his body climbed the wall. His fingers collided with it, digging into the crevices of the stones. The muscles in his arms flexed, his legs too. Water trickled down his face, down from his hair onto his back. He hardly felt it. The adrenaline from being free bubbled back up inside of him like a geyser reawakened. 

Positioning himself horizontally, he pivoted his body around, then vaulted backwards to the ground. The landing was graceless, but he recovered from it much faster than the first time. Guards never lurked behind the houses, since they were all private property. Pierre felt no guilt hopping fences of all the rich folk’s estates. He imagined himself sometime in the future going inside those places and taking what everyone but them desperately needed. 

His feet were soft as feathers on the ground. Was this the rush trained thieves felt? Is this the freedom Roe had promised him? Pierre felt unstoppable and new. 

Even as he slithered into the gate of the ratway with its terrible stench, he was elated. The torches along the walls warmed his freezing body. Their light was warm, and dare he say, inviting. 

At last, he reached The Ragged Flagon’s door. It burst open at his command, and the ever-familiar smell of mold and dirty water greeted his nose as friendly as it could be. 

The only ones awake were the bartender and an old man. Delvin was his name, if Pierre remembered. They’d never spoken. Roe said he only liked talking business, which meant one had to be officially part of the Guild. 

Upon noticing Pierre at the other side of the cistern, he waved. But it wasn’t towards Pierre. It was to something in the shadows, where the torches couldn’t reach. 

A figure emerged. It was short but well-built. Cropped hair as well. As they came more into the light, Pierre’s breath caught in his throat. 

“You’re back!” exclaimed Roe. That wicked smile of hers could be seen from a thousand miles away. 

He ambled towards her, trying to appear indifferent. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You got out,” she said, her voice hinting that he was supposed to be getting another meaning from the observation. He couldn’t think of anything. 

“I couldn’t stand another day in that shithole,” he replied.

Roe looked back at Delvin first, who gave her a knowing expression in return. Turning back to her friend, she said, “Listen here. I told you I’d put a good word in for you. They said if I could get you to do this you’d be in.”

Truly, he was completely lost. The cell had left him utterly delirious. Without realizing, his head was shaking. “What are you saying?”

“You’ll make a fine burglar with a little more practice. Or a jailbreaker.” Delvin was the one who said this.

“Wait. Wait.” His eyes shot daggers at Roe. “Are you saying you set me up?”

“Sorry,” replied Roe, but her voice dripped like honey in dishonesty. “But you want to get in, right? This is the only way I convinced them you were worth it. You’re kind of shit at stealing.” She glanced back at Delvin. “So far, at least, I mean.”

“Our ranks are lower than ever. We need all the help we can get. I don’t care if Mercer thinks different,” Delvin explained. 

Pierre didn’t know what to say, and not just because he was glad. He was a little peeved, too, but the high of his freedom still lingered, so he couldn’t act on it. Perhaps tomorrow when he woke up and the whole ordeal felt much more real. 

Roe filled in the silence. The smile she still wore filled the room, ushering in an uncertain and exciting energy. “Welcome to the business, jailbreaker. Let’s get you some new clothes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can all accept that I'm inconsistent with my updates. I PROMISE I WILL ANNOUNCE IF I WERE TO EVER DROP THIS OUT OF THE BLUE. For the benefit of future readers who might enjoy this lol. I can dream.


	8. Ale, Mead, and Sujamma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre Of-The-Fire's friend, Roe, asks him to take her job for him, and he accepts. The seemingly insignificant turn of events begins to turn some gears of fate Pierre would never expect to happen to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, another inconsistent update! Ngl this chapter is largely setup for the next one, but I hope you'll be able to appreciate some of Pierre and Roe's banter. 
> 
> I should probably elaborate on Roe in the notes since it wouldn't be appropriate to in-text, and since she will continue to be a large presence in the series. Roe is my friend's DB. For reasons I can't elaborate on yet, Pierre and Roe would be able to exist in the same world simultaneously. Obviously, I didn't expect anyone to think Roe was some minute NPC in-game we all glossed over. Nevertheless, I thought I would clarify just to clear up any possible confusion about who tf she is. 
> 
> With that said, I appreciate any of y'all's ongoing support and hope you enjoy this dumbass series as much as I do writing it.

Civilians got blackmailed, beehives got burned, and gold steadily began to flow like a stream into Pierre’s pockets. The sewer stench somehow became less noticeable. Or maybe it was the weight in his purse that kept him happy. 

Pierre was very happy indeed. 

The first few weeks weren’t completely disagreeable. No one wanted to touch Pierre after learning he was part of the Guild, leaving only Roe to help fine tune his lockpicking and keep him light on his feet. She wasn’t a patient teacher by any means. It’d only take two broken picks to send her into a cursing fury. Pierre thanked the gods he was a good sneak to save him from anymore chastising. 

Nevertheless, his pickpocketing skills remained laughable. Pierre got steered away from any jobs involving it. 

Eventually, he became noticed. Of course, heads weren’t turning at him walking in a room, but at least Brynjolf wanted to speak to him. In fact, Pierre and him seemed to have a mutual respect for each other. If only Brynjolf would quit with the jailbreaking jobs. He might go mad if he had to stay another night in a piss-ridden cell.

“Are you even listening?” Roe interjected.

“No,” he said. He turned his head to avoid her swinging hand. They were in the chest room. Pierre was fiddling with one of the more difficult Dwemer chests, Roe looming over him like a second shadow. 

“I said that you’re gonna take my job.” 

This made him look up at her. The lock pick broke. “Dammit,” he swore. “Why?”

In response, Roe fished the necklace around her out from under her armor. An amulet of Mara. The bronze gleamed in the candlelight. “I promised her I’d spend the afternoon with her. We’re gonna pick wildflowers.” Normally, the last phrase would be said like a joke only she found funny, but Pierre knew Roe was miles deep in love. It almost made him want to laugh. He never saw such gentle expressions on her scarred face unless she talked about the girl she was courting. She wouldn’t say her name, though, only that she lived in Shor’s Stone. Roe kept things to herself better than a locked box. They were the same in that way, not giving things away, just in case. 

With a sigh he said, “Would you at least tell me what the job is?”

“Maven told me to get over to Whiterun and talk to a guy named Mallus. I’m supposed to meet him in that inn we always drank at, remember the one? We’re supposed to be putting that brewery outside the city outta business.”

The hair on Pierre’s neck prickled upon hearing the name of the most infamous of the Blackbriar’s. “Did you tell her you’re not doing it?”

“No.”

“Roe . . .”

“You owe me, milk drinker.”

As vexing as it was, it was the truth. He wouldn’t be in the Guild without her. “Okay,” he grunted. “When am I leaving?”

Roe didn’t spare a second to ponder this. “I'm to get there by evening, so you should probably leave within the hour.”

Pierre had long foregone trying to open the chest, and he fell to the floor from his crouch. “You could’ve given me a little more notice!”

“I forgot about it ‘til now!” she exclaimed. “It can’t be that bad of a job, if anything.”

“Maven Black-Briar assigned it to you _ personally _,” he hissed between his teeth. 

“Maven did what?” Pierre’s back was to Brynjolf, but his odd cadence would give him away in the most crowded of rooms. When no one answered, he said, “Sorry, is it something I shouldn’t hear?”

The Guild was equally good at its sarcasm as it was thieving. “Maven gave Roe a job at Honningbrew,” Pierre finally said, standing up to look at him. “I’m taking it for her.”

Brynjolf scoffed. His arms crossed over his dark armor. It looked almost exactly like everyone else's, only with even more pockets and even better suited for stealth with its coal color. He didn’t look young, but certainly not old. He looked like he could rob just about anyone blind and convince them it was a ghost. “It’s your deathwish, lass.” His gaze pierced Roe’s, who looked back with equal assuredness. 

“Mallus doesn’t know who Maven’s sending,” Roe replied.

“But Maven does. You’d have to be a bloody fool to cross her.”

“I’m not crossing her, and no one but us three is gonna know that anything different than what Maven wants happened.”

For a long second, Brynjolf only stared at Roe. It was as though Pierre didn’t exist. He eyed the two, trying to figure out what the other was thinking. Looking as mean as either of them was something Pierre could only wish for. Suddenly, Brynjolf sighed. It was in the same exasperated way as Pierre's. “I trust you, lass. I don’t trust him, though.” Upon saying _ him _, he pointed a finger at Pierre.

“I can handle it,” he found himself saying. It just made the man raise an eyebrow. 

“If this blows up in our face, you’re both out, and you’ll have to hear it from Mercer,” he said, then left.

They stood there in utter silence, Pierre’s dread being large enough to fill the room, Roe’s resting face not giving away any kind of emotion. She combed a hand through her crop of hair.

“I’m getting my bow and leaving,” he announced. 

“Say ‘hi’ to the Companions for me,” she chided. Pierre ignored her.

――――――――

Being his luck, it rained the entire way to Whiterun. The carriage driver wasn’t happy about it either, and wouldn’t shut up about it the entire journey. Even when Pierre didn’t respond, he kept talking. The thought of paying him to not say another word was almost too tempting. Evening rolled around just before he gave into it. 

A dark outline of a castle came into view. Dragon’s Reach. He was back in Whiterun. In the back of his mind, he wanted to think about his short month or so there. Just before anyone specific could wander back, he cast it aside. Instead, he thought of the job. If Roe wasn’t giving him the entirety of the pay for this, he’d toss her boots into the canal. They were the nice ones Pierre wasn’t allowed to have yet, being too new in the Guild. It wouldn’t be so funny when it was happening to her.

Upon reaching the stable, he practically flew through the city gates. His armor had begun to soak through, and his hair chilled his ears and face. He dashed into The Bannered Mare, hardly being able to care if he saw some familiar faces.

If only he knew who Mallus was. He scanned the crowd. All were drinking and singing. Certainly not anyone waiting on a Guild member. Remaining casual, he ambled through the inn, trying to appear like he was looking for a good place to sit. 

He passed by the doorway into the kitchen. Someone was sitting in there, eyeing him with more than just fleeting curiosity. This was Mallus. Pierre entered the room and stood in front of him.

“Can’t a man drink in peace?” he asked. He had a gruff voice, though looked as if he hadn’t slept in years. His inky hair drooped past his chin, still damp from the rain. 

Pierre had drilled it the entire journey that no switch had been made, and he was the one who’d been sent. “Maven said you’re expecting me.”

Mallus didn’t skip a beat. "I'm going to keep this short 'cause we've got a lot to do. Honningbrew's owner, Sabjorn, is about to hold a tasting for Whiterun's Captain of the Guard and we're going to poison the mead."

Nodding, he inquired, “You have the poison?”

“No, no. We're going to get Sabjorn to give it to us. The meadery has quite a pest problem and the whole city knows about it. Pest poison and mead don't mix well, you know what I mean?”

“So I’m going to get rid of these pests and―”

“Precisely. You’ll happen by and offer to help poor old Sabjorn. He’ll give you the poison, and you’ll use some for the pests, and dump the rest into the brewing vat.”

The job was given, and Pierre went on his way to see it through. It was almost uncanny how accurately the events unfolded as Mallus described. The bartender was going mad with worry, and didn’t hesitate hiring Pierre for the job. He even got paid up front. 

Clearing out the skeevers was child’s play. Though the pests liked to try and pounce at him, his arrows would sink themselves into their heads before they could touch him. Pierre had no plan to contract Ataxia today. 

The man in the giant cavern beneath the brewery was an unpleasant surprise. The Thieves Guild didn’t particularly like killing, but this had to be an exception. No one told him about a deranged man living beneath a meadery. Pierre’s arrow sunk itself in the man’s skull. From his rags to the pile of hay he assumed had been his bed, it was probably a service to put him out of his misery.

The poison was partially emptied into the nest. Next came the vat. 

Following the path back up, the cavern emptied into the brewing house next door. Not a soul was inside. Barrels upon barrels of mead lined the walls. Four giant vats stood proudly. The stairs had to be taken to reach them. Up top, Pierre opened the lid to one and emptied the remaining contents of the bottle. This really was too easy.

Before leaving, he swiped a bottle from one of the barrels and took a swig. Truly to its name, the mead had a flavor of honey that complimented the mead nicely. Wiping a hand at his mouth, he set down the bottle atop the barrel, swiped the key hanging next to the door, and left to return to Sabjorn.

――――――――

“Mallus is humorous. I was amazed how real his sadness seemed when the captain was taking Sabjorn away.”

“Hmm,” Roe grunted in amazement, a hand supporting her cheek. They sat in the cistern next to a fire, their meals just finished. They were on their fourth round of ales. “I told you it wouldn’t be so bad. Paid well too, I bet?”

He nodded, but his eyes soon narrowed. “I’m keeping it.”

She shrugged indifferently. “’S fine with me. You took the job, didn’t you? I’m betrothed now, so the reward evens out.”

“When are you gonna tell me her name?”

Just as a coy smile creeped up on her, Brynjolf approached them. Both looked up, expectant. Pierre knew they were also both nervous as sin, but they knew how to keep an even expression. Maybe Roe didn’t feel any nerves. Nothing seemed to shake her.

“That note you gave me, lad, with the symbol. I have no clue where it’s from. But I do know that whoever made it is trying to sabotage the Guild.”

“What do you think should be done?”

The man pointed at the empty chair between them. “You mind?”

Roe and Pierre simultaneously shook their heads. Brynjolf sat down, groaning more from dread than fatigue. 

“I talked to Mercer, and he wants to speak to you, lad. Just a moment ago when I was speaking with him, he said he thinks you’d be fit for what’s to come next. Not hot-headed like this lass.” He winked at Roe. She sneered.

“When should I speak with him?” Pierre wasn’t stupid enough to ask exactly what qualified him for whatever was about to happen. No one in the Thieves Guild appreciated questions when it came to doing business. 

“Well, I’d tell you to go now, but seeing as you and Roe are deep in your cups, I’d advise you wait until you have a clear head. Mercer doesn’t appreciate his subordinates being loose on the job. Or speaking to him in general, really.”

This comment felt slightly like a jab at them in general, but his head was beginning to buzz, and he couldn’t find enough heart to care. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll talk to him,” he promised. Roe snorted at nothing.

“Aye. Carry on, then.” Brynjolf rose from his seat and sauntered off. 

They pondered for a moment. “After I get rich from all of this, I’m building an island.”

“Wow. Can I visit?” asked Roe, smirking again.

“No,” he replied. “Actually, yeah. But Bosmer and Dunmer only. They’re the only good ones left.”

She whistled. “Didn’t think you were prejudiced, but you learn somethin’ new everyday. Which Nord hurt you? Was it Brynjolf?”

“I don’t have a problem with _ him _. I have a problem with . . .” He stopped. “I think I’m going under. I forgot what my point was.” And he nearly forgot that bringing up things connecting to his past hurt even after the hangover. He drained his ale and got up to get another.

Roe laughed her curt, wolfish laugh. “You’re a lightweight.”

_ Says you with your burning cheeks. _“I’m not!” he exclaimed. “Sujamma is much stronger than all these ales combined, and I could hold my own with it.”

“Sujamma? That Dunmer drink?”

“Yeah, and it's a lot more potent than this. I was already tired as is, so the drink’s just amplifying it.”

“Where would you go to drink Sujamma?”

“When I lived in Morrowind,” Pierre answered. 

Roe gasped. “That’s fascinating,” she said, and he could tell she meant it. “Is it true about the giant bugs and whatnot?”

He took another gulp of ale. “I dunno. I never saw any giant bugs when I was there. Lots of―” Pierre cast the thought, the place, and any memories of it aside. “Yams,” he finished pathetically. 

Roe hooted. “Yams! C’mon, tell me for real. Why were you in Morrowind drinking Sujamma?”

“None of your concern, I think.”

With a sneer, she leaned forward and said, “Promise me you’ll tell me after the job with Mercer.”

“No.”

“Stop being so secretive.”

“I barely know anything about your life, either.”

She leaned back in her chair and raised an eyebrow. “Touche.” They both drank again. Mid-drink, she grunted and held a finger up. “I’ll tell you her name.”

Pierre said nothing.

“Sylgja.” Just saying her name put an alien warmth in Roe’s eyes. It disappeared after the utterance’s echo no longer resounded. 

“That doesn’t tell me anything about you; that’s not a fair trade. And again,” he emphasized, “There’s nothing for me to say about Morrowind.”

Roe disagreed. “There’s one thing that everyone in Tamriel has in common, and that’s a past, Of-The-Fire.”

It was the second wisest thing Pierre had heard come from her mouth, even if it was melodramatic. Likely was the last wise thing, too.

――――――――

The next morning, he didn’t have a headache. He just felt starved for money to build that island. He got up with a sigh, and got ready to meet with the Guildmaster.


	9. Under Solitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Thieves' Guild needs to know who's trying to shake them, and it falls onto Pierre-of-the-Fire to learn more about the mysterious buyer of Goldenglow Estate. Although fairly new to the Guild, since he was the one to get caught up in it all, he is the one designated for the job. Pierre will struggle with a choice: which part of his identity does he fight for?
> 
> This is the first part to this two-part chapter. Hopefully this makes ease-of-reading easier.

“There you are.”

Mercer stood in his usual position, hunched over the table that was surrounded by empty shelves. Brynjolf had described it to be where their lost artifacts would go when found again; they were relics supposedly so valuable they weren’t even worth selling. Papers lay scattered between his hands. Pierre recognized one out of the bunch, it being the letter he recovered during the job at Honningbrew. 

“No one can seem to identify this symbol from Goldenglow and Honningbrew,” Mercer began. “It would seem our adversary is attempting to take us apart indirectly by angering Maven Black-Briar. Very clever.” The last sentence had enough venom to kill a mammoth.

“Brynjolf told me you thought I would be good for whatever’s happening next.”

“Yes, yes,” he confirmed. “Our adversary is clearly well-funded. They’ve been able to avoid identification for years. But they’ve made a mistake, even after all their planning. The letter mentions a ‘Gajul-Lei.’ According to my sources, that’s an old alias used by one of our contacts, Gulum-Ei.”

Pierre would recognize the name of an Argonian anywhere. He could conceal it, but the instant bitterness in his stomach was there. It was ironic that this wasn’t going to be the reason he suited the job.

“Where do I come in?”

"I want you to be the one that goes, because you have the patience needed from being our golden jailbreaker. Gulum-Ei is our inside man at the East Empire Company in Solitude. I'm betting he acted as a go-between for the sale of Goldenglow Estate and that he can finger our buyer. But he’s a stubborn lizard. You’re going to have to be creative. Get out there, shake him down and see what you come up with.”

“Got it.”

“Whatever you do, don’t kill him. Even if he stabbed us in the back, it isn’t our job to be eliminating people―that’s the Dark Brotherhood’s. He could be valuable in the future.”

“Yeah, I know.” Mercer eyed him, a momentary flash of provocation. Pierre swallowed. “I understand,” he corrected.

The next trip had begun. This time, the weather remained agreeable, and the carriage driver kept his chatting under control. The countryside leaving Riften was golden and beautiful. Grass swayed in the gentle breeze. The sunlight reflecting off of the lake gave the land an auburn hue.

Pierre took a swig of water from his flask. He fiddled with the coins in his purse. Now being completely sober, an island felt a little ridiculous. He’d begin by spending his fortune on a house, with a dog. A new bow. It sounded pleasant.

By early evening they arrived in Haafinger, and the carriage let him off at a stable. It was nestled below a cliff, making the city of Solitude even more magnificent. Giant ships swayed on the choppy waters below the crag. On the land above it, a windmill as tall as a castle spun in lazy circles. The gusts of wind from the open lake just barely made it to where he stood.

Pierre shifted his bow and arrows reassuringly on his back, then began the journey uphill to the city gates.

Two guards were posted at the entrance, their helmets masking any indication of emotion or description. They halted Pierre, which boggled him. From what he’d heard, Solitude was as uncorrupt a city one could find in Skyrim. Surely he wasn’t being stopped like he had initially in Riften, being coerced out of his coin. He glared at them momentarily. 

“Be warned as you enter: An execution is taking place. Steer clear if you don’t wish to see,” cautioned the guard.

He nodded and proceeded. The second sentry chuckled as Pierre walked past, murmuring “Welcome to Solitude, traveler.”

Pierre didn’t feel inclined to watch someone be put to death, unlike the large crowd surrounding the executioner’s block. He eyed them and heard their enraged calls, an equal mix of anguish and bloodthirst. Some cried in hurrah for the Imperial Empire. Others declared the soon-dead man a true Nord.

Politics. Pierre had no stomach for them. It was hard enough taking care of his own hide. He moved quickly past the mob and searched for the whereabouts of an inn. 

To his luck, one was to his immediate left―The Winking Skeever. He hurried in, ready to be away from the mess outdoors. 

Despite it being the prime time for the place to be filling in, it was barren. No one was even behind the bar counter. The inviting glow of lanterns and firelight did not deter the odd chill around him. It had been a very long time since he’d been in an inn so empty, and even then, someone was always there.

“I am a loyal patron here. Corpulus trusted I would not do anything to make him feel differently,” someone out of sight hissed.

An Argonian’s odd cadence could be distinguished by just about anyone, but it pricked Pierre’s ears in a way too familiar for an elf like him. Any hint of memories of trees and sickness Pierre stuffed away, and he sauntered over to the table adjacent to the bar counter.

The Argonian sat, nursing a tankard of ale. Two stout, pointy horns jutted from the top of his head, and other smaller ones of emerald green scales from his chin. He wore red, and gold rings, and a pair of sinister eyes. “His brother is the one getting the chop. I have no interest watching that stuff.”

Before Pierre had embarked off to Solitude, Brynjolf gave him his two cents on the lizard.  _ "There are thieves and then there is Gulum-Ei. No honor, no code at all. He'd shake your hand and stab you in the back at the same time." _

Pierre remained standing before the Argonian’s table, and he was not offered to sit. The whole time, he hadn’t looked up from his drink. Pierre watched as his nostrils flared repeatedly. At last, he looked at Pierre. “By your scent, I’d say you’re from the Guild. But that can’t be true, because I told Mercer I wasn’t dealing with them anymore.”  
“I’m here about Goldenglow.”

He blinked, a second eyelid disappearing underneath his eye after the first. Pierre didn’t let his ire show. “I don’t deal with land or property. Goods, on the other hand . . .”

“Enough with the act, Gajul-Lei,” he sighed. A sudden swell of noise bled through the walls. The man must have been killed. The Argonian took no notice. Instead, he put a hand to his chin, elbow on the table supporting him. 

“Goldenglow Estate, was it? I’m sorry to say I’m not familiar with the . . . bee farm, right?”

This facade was quickly wearing on Pierre’s nerves. “You acted as a broker for the new owner.”

Gulum-Ei’s other hand waved nonchalantly. “Maybe. I can’t be expected to remember every little deal I handle.”

“You should start remembering,” he noted, leaning over the table. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing. He didn’t know why it was him that was chosen for this job. But this Argonian threatened the niche he had, no matter how despicable it currently was. He wouldn’t let them have another piece of him. He wouldn’t let them punish him again for mistakes that weren’t his. “You identify the buyer, and we forget what we know”

“Hmph,” snorted Gulum-Ei, but then sighed. “If I had known this deal to be so much trouble, I wouldn’t have taken the gold in the first place.”

Just then, the inn’s front door swung open, and a dozen people crowded in solemnly. The man who must have been Corpulus was at the front. He sombered over behind the counter, head in his hands. Some others took a seat at the stools, and the man picked himself up and started to serve ales. 

"Look,” started the lizard. His voice went almost mute with the influx of people. “I was approached by a woman who wanted me to act as the broker for something big. She flashed a bag of gold in my face and said all I had to do was pay Aringoth for the estate. I brought him the coin and walked away with her copy of the deed.” 

“Did she say why?” he murmured back.

“I tend to not ask too many questions when on the job. I thought that was something you thieves understood.”

“So that’s it? No name or anything?”

“That’s it. Names come from the coin we carry, not meaningless utterances.”

Pierre paused. Nobody was watching them, being too caught up in their grief. A woman sitting at the bar was crying, a little girl patting her hand. 

“I think you’re lying,” Pierre declared.

Gulum-Ei shrugged. “Think what you like. That’s all I know. Now if you’ll excuse me, elf.” And with that, he got up, bumped into Pierre to move past him, and exited The Winking Skeever. 

Several moments passed of him wondering what to do. He’d have to follow after him and wait to get a satisfactory answer, even if it took all day and night. Mercer wouldn’t take the lousy piece of information he just got as an answer, and frankly, Pierre wanted to know the truth just as badly. 

Gulum-Ei already passed through the front gate by the time Pierre left the inn. The lizard hadn’t bothered checking to see if Pierre was still hanging around him. No, he was in a hurry. 

He continued to keep his distance from him, strolling casually, willing his footsteps to not leak a sound. He was led to the path the stable branched off of, but they did not stop. Only a stone’s throw away awaited the docks, and a monstrous half-circle of stone built into the cliffside. Pierre didn’t know exactly what it was. Given the ships, it had to be a warehouse of some kind. He only wondered why the Argonian was so desperate to get there. 

A winding set of wooden steps had to be taken to get closer to the water, where it eventually flowed to lap upon the bottom of the structure. Gulum-Ei twisted and turned around the corners, boards clattering beneath his shoes. Pierre almost felt foolish for waiting for the blindspots to return, as the lizard was so absorbed in his destination, it seemed incredibly unlikely he’d notice anyone. 

But he waited, even after the top of his target’s head disappeared under the curve of the hill. If it was the warehouse he was headed to, then the door to it would either be open or in need of breaking. Either way, he would have time to catch up. 

The coast was clear. Pierre pressed on. Sure enough, he was led to the East Empire Company warehouse door. It was a small, pathetic thing compared to the massive entrance for the ships. The lock was child’s play.

Inside, Gulum-Ei was already somewhere else in the labyrinth of shelves and wares. The whole place had to be worth tens of thousands of Septims. But it was all things too large and perishable for Pierre to pocket on his way. It was okay; he was too focused on finding the lizard to feel much of a loss.

Because of the place’s obvious value, guards patrolled almost every corner. They waved torches to light the dim space, forcing Pierre every so often to fling himself under a shelf where the light didn’t reach. Simply diving in the water below the docks would eliminate the threat, but the noise would echo around the cave like an explosion.

Though it took a numbing amount of time, Pierre made it to the back of the cave. Gulum-Ei came into view again. 

As quick as Pierre saw him, he was gone.

It was like he sunk into the boards. Gingerly, he lurched a few paces closer to where he last saw the argonian. At that moment, he realized what had given off the illusion: a set of rotting stairs sunk into the water. 

Not letting a moment go to waste, Pierre submerged into the stinking water and followed after his target.


	10. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something of a "part two" to the previous chapter. What will happen when Pierre makes his confrontation with the fence, Gulum-Ei?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg as usual i'm inconsistent. but im back B) Thank you for your continued support. Please leave a kudos if you like the series!

Brinewater Grotto: the name Pierre overheard from one of the thugs sitting above the winding stream when he came up for air. The water was murky and the cave was dim enough to conceal him. A lucky thing, since over a dozen of the bandits were littered throughout the place. Were they all Gulum-Ei’s men and women? Or did they all have some kind of deal worked out for the place?

Well, if they were his, then they would soon be sorry. 

He dove back under. Occasionally he resurfaced, scanning for his lizard to no avail. Gulum-Ei was further in. Pierre kept swimming. His bow weighed on his back, and his armor felt to be made of lead instead of leather.

Eventually, the stream came to a halt. It was just dark enough to conceal him from the eyes of the enemies, but one wrong move could betray that security. He reminded himself to keep breathing. 

Crouching, he approached a wider area of the cave. A half circle, with shelves as tall as the walls would allow them. Chests upon chests ripe with goods lined them. A caged wolf lay behind the mountain of junk, growling softly. These were all clearly the goods being traded and sold without any cut for the guild. But what made the scene most impressive was Gulum-Ei in the center of it all. 

Water gushed off of Pierre’s armor as he fought the resistance and rose from the stream. The wood of his bow gleamed, the hair from his braid was coming undone, the dirt under his boots became mud as he took each step.

His expression alone was enough for the lizard to crack. “Now, there’s no need to do anything rash,” he started. “This isn’t as bad as it seems. I was going to tell Mercer everything, honestly!” 

Already, Pierre’s bow was cocked and ready to fire. The arrow stared at Gulum-Ei’s throat thirstily. The Argonian raised his hands next to his head. “Tell me everything, now!” Pierre bellowed.

“Alright, alright!” he squealed. “Karliah. The name of the person you want is Karliah!”

He didn’t lower his guard a bit. “You say that name like I should know it.”

“Did Mercer never tell you?” He stiffened when Pierre’s eyes narrowed. “Karliah is the thief responsible for killing the previous leader of the Guild, Gallus. Now she’s after Mercer.”

“And now you’re helping her?”

“Help . . ?” echoed Gulum-Ei. “No, no! Look, I didn’t even know it was her until  _ after _ she contacted me. Please, you have to believe me!”

Pierre edged nearer, and in turn his target moved back, hitting the table behind him. “Enlighten me, lizard, what is there about you that I should trust right about now?”

“You’ve gotten what you’ve wanted to know, what more do you want from me? Please, let’s let this silly misunderstanding lie in the past and move forward. The Guild needs me.”

“You haven’t told me everything. Why did Karliah buy Golden Glow? What’s her angle?”

“I don’t know; she wouldn’t tell me. All I can tell you is that she's trying to hit the Guild where it hurts. Maven needs the honey to make her mead, and the Guild keeps the estate under her thumb. Without it, it leaves a gap in their defenses.”

“That can’t be it.”

“She said she’s going to ‘where the end began’. Karliah has her eyes on Mercer. She killed the last Guildmaster, Gallus, and now she wants him too. She’s a traitor. That’s everything, I swear!”

Pierre thought it over. “Brynjolf was right,” he said, “you are a slippery little weasel.”

“I’m playing the same game as the Guild. Money talks. But I really didn’t know anything, so please . . .”

“You’re not going to be doing any talking anymore.” he decided. The arrow released, sinking itself into Gulum-Ei’s stomach. 

There had been no time for him to react. He gawked down at the arrow in amazement, then sunk to his knees.

“Better lay onto your back if you want to stay afloat,” mused Pierre. He stalked over to the dying fence. His face was reflected in the lizard’s wide eyes. Both of them were dying, only differing in which manner. Pierre’s face was stone. “Any final words? Do I have any reason to try and preserve your life?”

He drank in a wheezing breath. “Say goodbye to the Guild,” he whispered. “You need me.”

“No,” Pierre replied, shaking his head. “We don’t.”

This made him smirk, before wincing in pain. “Yeah, right.” And the light left him.

Even though he was no longer alive, Pierre lingered over the body for a moment, staring into the fish-eyed deadness of him. He knew what he did. Officially, he had failed. Yet somehow, he felt okay with that. Another arrogant Argonian was dead. It couldn’t do anything about the past, but it gave the child he once was some peace. 

As he made his way out of the grotto, he wondered to himself if going back to the Guild was worth a try. It would take some time for word to get out that the man was dead. With some luck, he could pass it off as an unrelated occurrence. 

It felt good. All his anger fused into that arrow and landed itself in that Argonian. That had been the right thing to do, and the Guild was too afraid of losing some extra Septims to do it. 

He could go back. He’d grab his pay, pretend to take a job, then go. The Thieves Guild wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Not that there was a specific destination in mind. But it certainly wasn’t swiping jewels from mansions, or drooling in a stinking prison cell. 

The Dark Brotherhood was what Mercer had mentioned, right? Well, he was as free as a bird, and it was about time he flew off. 


	11. The Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre Of-The-Fire has returned to the Thieves Guild with the intention of taking his pay and leaving. But the Karliah business has put that plan on hold. Things take a turn for the worse as he and Mercer Frey go to Snow Veil Sanctum in pursuit of the ex-Guildmember.

Two days later, Pierre Of-The-Fire arrived in Riften. His armor reeked of filthy water, his hair was an unkempt mess. He didn’t bother redoing his normal braid, as he intended to bathe as soon as he got back. 

The journey back had been a constant back-and-forth of not knowing whether to smile or not. He couldn’t fight the moods, even as he descended the stone steps in the graveyard into the cistern. But as he entered, a dead seriousness coated him. His creeping smile vanished.

It was the middle of the night, and most everyone was huddled in their cots, asleep. The torches in the cistern burned low, their orange light reflected on the sewer water in splotchy orbs. He brushed back his hair with a hand.

All were asleep but Brynjolf. Their eyes caught. Immediately, Pierre knew the man knew something. Maybe not all of it, but enough. Pierre’s eyebrows raised, and he walked up to him.

“Word gets back here fast, lad,” he growled.

Pierre’s chin jutted out. “I did us a favor.”

“‘Us’?” He scoffed, rubbed at his chin, and decided against whatever it was he meant to say. “Whatever. What did you learn?”

“Karliah intends to kill Mercer like she did Gallus. She’s going to ‘where the end began’.”

“Karliah, you said?”

Pierre nodded.

“I haven’t heard that name in years. But it’s starting to make sense now. I’ll relay to Mercer. Go and rest.”

“But my pay―”

“Is forfeit,” he declared. Pierre swallowed hard. “And until this Karliah business is straightened out, we need you.”

“It was one mistake, Brynjolf.”

Fire flashed in his eyes. “And a costly one, lad. Get out of my sight, and I’ll let you know what happens as soon as I can.”

His smirk found him again, but he released it and walked away.

Not more than an hour passed when Mercer had news. Pierre had bathed and was hanging his armor to dry. He wore a plain tunic, sitting at the edge of the cistern water, not thinking about a lot, yet altogether too much. 

“Meet me at Snow Veil Sanctum. Just southeast of Winterhold. We need to stop her before she disappears again,” Mercer said, already walking away by the time Pierre could turn around.

Dressing himself in his half-dry armor, he grabbed his bow and quiver and some rations. His bed and chest were adjacent to Roe’s. She still slept, snoring softly. It was still the early hours of the morning. He wondered if they’d meet again after this. He wondered if he should wake her, just in case.

Instead, he sauntered over to the ladder leading outside, made his way to the stables, and paid for a carriage. It was cold outside. He shivered.

For most of the journey he dozed. Powdery snow had formed a thin sheet over him by the time he arrived in Winterhold. The sky was beginning to change into the warm colors of evening.The inn he spotted sounded inviting, but there was no time to dry off. Tugging the map out from within his armor, he located the sanctum. It would be a long walk. 

Amidst the snow, Pierre stuck out like a sore thumb. Avoiding the ice wolves and snow bears was sheer dumb luck. The howls of the wolves echoed through the tundra as a ghostly warning. It sounded lonely and savage. 

Freezing winds whipped up without warning. They blasted Pierre, who then would lift his arms to protect his face. The cold made his eyes feel as if they would freeze into his head. His lips were dry and chapped. 

An eternity later, a frozen brown lump came into view. Pierre almost missed it, as through the early darkness it looked to be merely a meager dirt hill covered in snow. Then, he saw the tent set up, and the dead horse, which Mercer stood over.

Pierre picked up his pace. 

Mercer never wasted a second. The moment he was in earshot, he said, “She’s a cornered rat in that crypt now. Go pick the lock so we can put this business to an end.”

Pierre would have, but after descending the winding staircase, one glance at the door told him that this was no ordinary lock. Rusted iron bars snaked across each other, the elaborate lock dead in the middle. “Mercer,” he called.

Mercer was already following behind him. He strode to the door and clicked his tongue. “You’re going to let something like this stop you?” He began fiddling with it, a shiny flash coming from his sleeve. It had to be the lockpick, yet it was unlike anything Pierre had seen thus far.

He didn’t get any time to ponder on it by the time Mercer was through with the lock. The thing had been child’s play to the Guildmaster. Pierre wondered if it was the man’s skill alone, or partially whatever he had used. 

“Are you going to stand there like a fool or get us through this crypt?” Mercer’s commanding growl cut through Pierre’s pondering. He said nothing, going through the door. 

His skin felt considerably better now that it was out of the biting chill. He shook the snow off of his hair and armor. 

“Stinks of death,” commented Mercer. He pushed at a dead draugr’s head with his boot. “Let’s get this over with. Looks like the bitch has already dealt with the undead.” 

Despite the claim, two people winding through the sanctum proved unlucky. Several draugr still lay in waiting. This was Pierre’s first time dealing with the undead beings. They were foul creatures. Their glowing eyes pierced him, reminded him that he was very much alive, and they were very much unliving. And they were going to snuff out a life.

After taking down three of them, Pierre asked, “How are they able to wake up again?”

“First time in a crypt?” he replied. Pierre nodded, failing to mask his unease. “No one really knows. It wasn’t like this a little over two decades ago. The gods have their ways, I suppose.”

It didn’t answer a single thing. Pierre breathed a lofty prayer to Stendarr. They stared at the dead draugr, then continued on. No others reawoke, having already been slain by Karliah. In their place were her traps.

As they approached another room, the only thing that kept Pierre’s life intact was a harsh tug on his arm sending him backwards. A towering, spiked door ricocheted forward with the force of a giant swinging its club. “Careful, elf,” Mercer warned, his vexation clear.

Apologizing to him was about equally offensive as walking into the deathtrap, so he said nothing. 

That, and the final room caught his attention. The final hallway, really. It led to another, judging by the massive door at the end. Pierre paced to it. The center of the semicircular door didn’t have a lock that was familiar to him. Instead there were four precise indentations: three on top, and one in the middle below. Pierre put his hand to it. The stone didn’t budge. “We need some kind of key,” he announced.

“We won’t,” Mercer contested. Pierre made room for him to have a look. “Ah, it's one of the infamous Nordic puzzle doors. How quaint. Without the matching claw, they're normally impossible to open. And since I'm certain Karliah already did away with it, we're on our own” He glowered at the construct before squatting down. “Fortunately, these doors have a weakness if you know how to exploit it. Quite simple, really.” Like the original entrance, he played around with the lock for a moment before it conceded. He took a few steps backwards. “After you.”

The two watched as the impressive door began to shake and rumble, then slowly move into the floor. Dust scattered everywhere, blinding them from the other side. It should have been dark under normal circumstances. Karliah was inside, however. Light flooded into the hall.

Pierre squinted, trying to see her figure through the settling dust. He stepped over the puzzle door, searching frantically. Then, a sharp, stabbing pain throbbed in his shoulder. 

The surprise of the arrow sent him tripping backwards. Mercer stepped next to him, not caring to catch him as his balance left. Pierre caught his uncaring eyes before his vision transformed into a blurred mess. His heart should have been racing, yet it slowed.  _ The arrow was poisoned. _ What was happening? Why was Mercer not shot yet?

Then, the Guildmaster was standing over him. Pierre’s muddying thoughts caught a remembrance of him looking down on Gulum-Ei just a day ago. Somehow, it was now his turn. 

He wasn’t ready. He had so much to do.

“How interesting,” Mercer drawled. “It appears Gallus' history has repeated itself. Karliah has provided me with the means to be rid of you, and this ancient tomb becomes your final resting place.” 

Karliah emerged from whatever shadow she had hidden herself in.

“But do you know what intrigues me the most?” Mercer had grabbed onto Pierre, but it took him a few seconds to register. Everything was becoming black and white, and his hearing was fading. “The fact that this was all possible because of you. Farewell. I'll be certain to give Brynjol f your regards."

Pierre Of-The-Fire was lost to the world. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please look forward to the next update. Updates, I expect, will come out every week or week and a half. 
> 
> SONGS I LISTENED TO WHILE WRITING:
> 
> \- Gustav Holst - St. Paul's Suite  
\- Ola Gjeilo - Ave Generosa  
\- and of course, predominantly, anything from Skyrim's soundtrack


End file.
